His cynicism ran deep, Liz realized and wondered yet again what had happened with Vanessa. “Would that be part of the bargain? I'd entertain your clients and executives and dine with the other trophy wives at the country club?”
“No.” He shook his head in disgust. “I don't even belong to the Carlyle Country Club. I hate that crowd. But the type of marriage we're thinking about wouldn't be unusual for them.” He gave her a sardonic look. “And no, I wouldn't expect you to entertain for me. Just don't expect me to like changing diapers.”
She gave him a droll look. “What about the fact that I'm still employed by you? Won't people start talking?”
He shrugged. “The day-care center will be finished soon. And as long as we're discreet, it's nobody's business. I'll admit I have a rule of not mixing business and pleasure—” he paused “—but rules are meant to be broken in the right circumstances.”
As crazy as it sounded, the whole scheme was starting to make sense to her. “And we'd—” she searched for a delicate word even as her face heated “—have a baby the old-fashioned way?”
He gave her a sudden lopsided grin. “Or die trying.”
She nearly choked. Just how much trying was he planning on doing?
His eyes caught hers, and he asked provocatively, “What's the matter? Do you want me to demonstrate again that we're a combustible mix?”
Automatically she raised her hand to ward him off. “No!” She collected herself and said less stridently, “No, another demonstration isn't necessary.”
His eyes gleamed. “I'll pick you up Saturday at eight.”
“Where are we going?”
“Leave that to me. I'll call.”
And with that he was out the door with the boxes and Liz felt the oxygen in the room again.
By late Saturday afternoon, Liz was running out of things to do to quell her nerves and keep her mind off her looming date with Quentin that night.
When the phone rang, it was a welcome relief. “Hello.”
“Hello, sweet pea.”
Her face bloomed into a wide smile. “Dad!”
“So! You haven't forgotten the voice of your dear ol' Dad? Thanks be for small favors!” Her father answered in his booming Irish brogue.
“Now, Dad, I just spoke with you.”
“And when might that have been, I ask you? Why, a week from Wednesday last, if it isn't a day!”
Wisely deciding to change the topic of conversation, she inquired, “How's the fishing down in the Florida Keys? Still good?”
“Aye, couldn't be better. Caught a bass as big as anything you've ever seen.” Her father sighed contentedly. They chatted about his trip a bit and then he asked, as she knew he would, “How's my little girl?”
“Working hard.”
“Not too hard I hope. How's about looking to give your dear ol' Dad some pitter-patter of little feet to chase after?”
“Dad!” Her mind drifted to Quentin and she yanked it back.
“Don't 'Dad' me. I worry about you.”
Liz sighed in exasperation. Quentin wasn't the only one getting parental pressure. Unfortunately, her father didn't know what a painful topic babies had become. She tried for a lighthearted approach. “If and when I decide to give you 'little feet' to chase, I'll let you know.”
“Ah, you're a hard one, lass.”
“Goodbye, Dad.”
Liz sighed. Ever since her mother had died when she was eight, it had been just her and her Dad. He'd loved her mother Siobhan and had been devastated by her loss. He had had to be both mother and father to her.
And there was the source of the one complaint she could have about her father. He was too overprotective, treating her still as “his little girl.”
Naturally, he had tried to convince her to move to Florida when he had retired down there. But she had already started her professional career in Carlyle and had been reluctant to move. She'd also been quietly chagrined that he'd sold his construction business at retirement without even asking if she'd been interested in taking over the company. Sometimes she wondered if things would have been different if her father had had a son.
Elizabeth's house was quiet when Quentin pulled up on Saturday night. He'd dressed in black trousers and an open-collar gray shirt with matching blazer. Reservations at Casa Vittoria in nearby Prescott, the new restaurant Lazarus had mentioned the other night. He derived grim satisfaction from knowing he'd outmaneuvered the stockbroker.
He'd been pumping Allison for information about Elizabeth when his sister had suggested in exasperation that he find out for himself by picking up some party decorations that Elizabeth had done for her.
The more he thought it over, the more he realized that Allison might have had a brilliant idea after all. Frankly, life had started to bore him. The endless procession of Vanessas, each of whom saw him as Mr. Moneybags.
His mouth twisted in memory. Seven years had passed since he'd been a lovesick twenty-nine-year-old entrepreneur on the fast track. So taken in by a pair of wide blue eyes that he'd been deaf to the discreet warnings that family and friends had tried to send his way until it was almost too late.
There'd been an engagement party of course. An expensive dinner affair that Vanessa had insisted on holding at the poshest country club in town. “But darling, everyone makes their engagement announcement at the Bridgewater,” she had pouted when he'd voiced some doubts about the necessity of the whole thing.
Towards the end of the evening, he'd ducked outside to one of the many terraces to nurse a drink of scotch. Vanessa and her close friend Mara had stopped to chat in the hall inside.
“Vanessa dear, I'm so happy for you!” Mara had said in her cultured but squeaky voice.
“Thank you, darling.”
“The Whittakers, my goodness!” Mara had fanned herself with her napkin. It was clear she'd had more than a couple of drinks. “Why, many are predicting Quentin will be worth over half a billion by the time he's thirty-five! How ever will you manage to spend all that money?”
Vanessa's tinkling laugh had sounded then. “Oh, Mar, how can you ask that? Have you ever known me to live below my budget?”
Mara had pretended to consider that question. “Well, no.”
They had both laughed like two conspirators sharing an inside joke.
“And just in the nick of time, too,” Mara had gone on. “You're so lucky to have reeled in Quentin just as the last money in your trust fund disappeared.”
“Not luck darling,” Vanessa had said, winking. “Just playing my cards right.”