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She wanted to lick him
And Lilia had never licked anyone in her life. She was quite sure that licking people was not good manners in any country. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to crawl all over Dan.
“I have to get my keys,” she said, turning away from him. You don’t like cowboys. You like your men supersonically civilized. Why do you have the hots for a man who rides horses? she told herself.
She didn’t know. She couldn’t explain it.
Lilia walked to her front door with the full knowledge that Dan’s eyes were fixed on her backside. Heat bloomed over her skin. Giving in to wicked temptation, she dropped her keys, then bent to pick them up, knowing that her skirt would pull tight as she did so.
She inserted the key into the lock and watched him, reflected in the glass of the door. He actually made a fist and stuck it in his mouth. She was pretty sure that was the man-sign for “hubba hubba” or something like that.
Lilia smiled and wondered what was the most proper, mannerly way to seduce someone.
Dear Reader,
If you love opposites-attract stories, then Open Invitation? is the novel for you! The third book in my THE MAN-HANDLERS trilogy for Harlequin Blaze, it features Lil, a Connecticut etiquette consultant who learns a few steamy lessons from Dan, her west Texas cowboy client. Lil’s got a lesson to learn: that an apparently “rude” cowboy is really the supreme gentleman.
Dan reminds me a little of my own husband, who could burp the alphabet when I first met him, and actually proposed to me in the bathroom while I was washing my face.
ME: (chip clip on head to hold hair back, soap lather on face) You cannot propose to me in the bathroom!
HIM: What, like there’s a rule about this?
ME: Well, if there isn’t a rule, there should be one!
HIM: Look, will you marry me or not?
But hubby is really Prince Charming—just undercover. I hope you enjoy Dan and Lil’s story as much as I did writing it. Come see me at www.KarenKendall.com, or you can write to me care of Harlequin Enterprises Ltd., 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
Happy reading,
Karen Kendall
Open Invitation?
Karen Kendall
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
1
LILIA LONDON, Connecticut etiquette consultant, grimaced as her bra strap fell off her shoulder and down her arm. She shoved it back up—for the third time—and ignored the throbbing of her left big toe, which ached to escape the sling-back she wore.
An etiquette consultant couldn’t run around in just her panty hose, and she shouldn’t be flashing her lingerie in public, either. Too bad, because the bra was really pretty. Someone besides her should see it….
Lil banished the thought, straightened her posture and edged closer to the eighteenth-century mahogany card table she used as a desk. She peered at her computer.
“In Chinese tradition,” she wrote, “the last half of the seventh lunar month is viewed as unlucky for weddings. During this time, the Hungry Ghost Festival is held. It is thought that the gates of Hell are opened, freeing lost spirits to wander the earth. No couple wishes them invited to their nuptials!”
She finished typing the last line of a report on Chinese wedding customs for a client and hit the save button on her computer just as the phone rang.
Now battling an itch in an uncouth place, Lil sighed. It was really tough to be a lady today.
She ignored the itch, crossed her legs and punched the speakerphone button with one tastefully manicured, medium-length nail. “Finesse, Lilia speaking.”
“Haaaaaaaaah,” said a man’s voice, deep and lazy and full of almost sinister sexual vibrations.
Haaaaaaaaaah? Since her mind was more focused on ni hao, or hello in Chinese, it took her a moment to process his accent.
“Haaaaaaaaaaah,” he repeated. “Maaaah nayme is Dayan Graaanger, Miz Lundun.”
My goodness. His Texas drawl was thicker than the peach preserves Nana Lisbeth used to put away each summer.
“Hello, Mr. Granger. How may I help you?”
“I gotch your nayme by way of a Mrs. Shane.”
Her partner Shannon’s mother. Interesting.
“And the dill is—”
Dill? The spice?
“—I need some emergency, uh, charm school lessons. Mah sister’s marryin’ some blue-blood Brit and she don’t want me to embarrass her at her own weddin’.”
Oh, the poor man. So the sister has humiliated him by saying so. Lil’s heart went out to him, even though his accent was almost comical. “When will the nuptials take place, Mr. Granger?”
“In two weeks.”
Lilia raised an eyebrow and looked at her gilt-edged, blue-leather appointment book. “I’m afraid that I’m out of the office on vacation starting Monday, a week from today. Could you come in tomorrow, perhaps? I think I can clear my afternoon.”
“Ahh think this is gonna take more than a single afternoon, Miz London, but I guess I can try to find a flight.”
“From where will you be traveling?”
“Amarillo, Texas.”
She’d surmised that he was coming from somewhere in the Wild West.
“I can probably give you two and a half days this week, but I’m afraid that’s all the time I have,” she said regretfully.
“Here’s the dill, Miz Granger. Because I’m guilty of procrastinatin’ on this, I’m willing to triple your normal fees if you’ll take me on. I need dancin’ lessons. I need fark lessons. I need—”
Lil paused. What on earth is a fark? “Fark lessons, Mr. Granger?”
“You know. Like knife ‘n’ fark. I’ve been warned there’s gonna be five farks at this damn dinner, and hell if I know what to do with ’em. Also, I need to learn ballroom dancin’—the waltz and that kinda crap. And I need clothes, plus a penguin suit.”
Penguin…oh, dear. He needs a great deal more than that, by the sound of it.
“I know it’s short notice, Miz London. But I’d make it worth your while. An’ I’m a real charmin’ guy. It won’t be no chore.”
Her lips twitched. “Yes, obviously you possess a great deal of ch—ah, charisma, Mr. Granger. But—”
“Ten thousand dollars a week. How does that sound?”
“I beg your pardon?” Lilia blinked rapidly. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”
“Okay, twelve. But that’s my final offer. Twelve thousand a week, for the next two weeks. And I’ll pay for your vacation that you have to reschedule, if I’m pleased with your work. A bonus, you could call that.”
Lilia’s brain didn’t require more than a nanosecond to do the math. Twenty-four thousand dollars for Finesse and a free vacation for her? They could hire a PR firm to make a push for more business. And even start anticipating actual salaries!
“Mr. Granger, your offer is very generous.” Lil hesitated, torn between wanting her vacation and wanting the business.
“Well, I think so.”
She could take her vacation a little later. “I do hate to ask, but would you be willing to sign a contract with everything down in black and white?”
“I’ll sign my own ass in red permanent marker if you’ll take me on.”
Lilia tried not to choke. “That—that won’t be necessary, Mr. Granger. Why don’t you give me your fax number, and I’ll send a contract right over?”
“You betcha.” He recited the number, and Lilia immediately typed it straight into her computer, where she’d already opened up a file with his name on it. “Mr. Granger? Just for our records, how is it that you know Mrs. Shane?”
“My mother knows her. Some Paris fashion show they both attend? Or some charity event? The kind where you pay five thousand for a plate of rubber veal, soaked in champagne and topped with escargot? The type of thing where everybody there gets to show off their flashy jewels and plastic surgeon’s miracles, while feeling smug and righteous ’cuz every sip of their drink costs a hundred bucks.”
The man has a chip on his shoulder, that much is certain. Poor guy. It sounds like he really doesn’t fit in with his own family. She wondered why he was so different.
Lilia recaptured her thoughts and pressed her lips together, along with her silk hosiery-clad knees. She found something about this man’s Texas-accented voice very…carnal.
Which was utterly ridiculous, since she could barely understand that redneck drawl of his. Not to mention the fact that just during their brief conversation so far, he’d butchered the basics of Grammar 101 as she knew it. Still, his voice poured over her like sexual syrup—and she couldn’t help liking him.
“Thank you, Mr. Granger,” Lilia said. “I look forward to meeting you tomorrow. Will you confirm with me when you find a flight?”
“You betcha.”
Lilia smiled. “Goodbye, Mr. Granger.”
“Catch ya later, Miz London.”
She sat at her desk reflecting for a moment: was it realistic to think she could break his slang speech patterns or change his accent in two weeks? Probably not.
She could dress him and teach him basic table manners, dance steps and polite conversation. She could explain some of the peculiarities of the English language. But as for the rest, no.
She could suggest ways of capitalizing on his Texas heritage and demeanor. She could train him to be a charming eccentric: good-humored about his differences. If he was at all good-looking she’d show him how to kiss a lady’s hand and compliment her without smarm. The British women would swoon.
However, she was undoubtedly reading too much into that voice. Dan Granger might be gangly, have a prominent Adam’s apple and pizzalike skin for all she knew. She’d just have to wait and find out.
Twenty-four thousand dollars for two weeks of work, though! Lilia decided that she didn’t care what Dan Granger looked like. She stood up and pirouetted into the reception area. “Shan? Jane? I’m bringing in the big bucks!”
Shannon stuck her blond head out of her office. True to form, she wore tight, black, boot-cut slacks and an electric-blue leather jacket. “Huh? What’s this about big bucks?”
“This Texas guy is going to pay us twenty-four thousand dollars to turn him into Pierce Brosnan in two weeks.”
Jane stuck her dark, curly head out of her own office. “You’re kidding!”
Lil smiled at Jane. She could finally pay her back for bringing her into the business; identifying that she had a unique set of skills that were in demand in the marketplace. Jane had rescued her from a dead-end job as a receptionist in a law firm, and Lil still couldn’t believe she was now a professional and a partner in Finesse.
“How raw is the material, Professor Higgins?” Shannon asked, wryly.
Lil’s lips twitched and she met their gazes with a steady, even one. “Well…”
“Uh, oh,” said Jane.
“I wish you luck,” Shannon said.
“Thank you. I think I’ll need it, judging by how he handles himself on the phone.”
Lilia preferred to work with women. They were easier to mold and they did their homework. Most of the male clients she had were sent by their employers and didn’t take etiquette too seriously as a means to move forward in their careers. A mistake, to Lil’s thinking.
“So why is this guy paying you so much money?” Jane asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Because I’m having to clear my schedule and cancel my vacation in order to complete his transformation in two weeks. His sister is marrying into British aristocracy, and he doesn’t want to embarrass her with his crass, crude ways. Incidentally, Shan, we were recommended to him through your mother. She knows his mother from either charity events or fashion week.”
“Small world. Hey, I guess that means I get a kick-back, though, Lil. You can give me a shopping spree at Neiman Marcus.” Shannon winked.
“I think not,” Lil told her. “Good try, though. You’ll have to settle for a PR firm instead.”
“Done!” announced Jane.
Shannon frowned. “You’re so cruel.” She wandered into the small kitchenette they all shared. “Hey! Who ate all the crème doughnuts?”
Jane’s face was a study in innocence.
“Jane!”
“Who, me?” Then she gave up the pretence. “You ate them all last time!”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you should descend to my level…”
Jane laughed. Then she turned back to Lilia. “I can’t believe you’re giving up your vacation in San Francisco for this guy. But thank you.”
“It’s not a sum I think we should turn down, with the business being so new and all. And besides, he offered to pay for my rescheduled vacation—as a bonus, if he’s pleased with my work.”
Jane’s jaw dropped. “This guy must be either too loaded to care, or truly desperate. He’s probably a mess. Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
Lilia thought about the farks. About the dancin’ and crap. And about the penguin suit. She was probably in for a rough time of it.
Was she up to the challenge? “Yes.”
Well, it wasn’t as if she had a social life lately, since breaking up with her boyfriend of two years after he’d proposed.
She had considered marrying Li Wong, a terribly sweet Chinese man. But the awful truth was more than Shannon’s summary of things: that Li’s wong was not so long.
He’d wanted Lil to give him a full-body massage every night—without ever returning the favor—learn Cantonese and move to Beijing as his obedient wife.
Lil had very respectfully declined, whereupon Li Wong had informed her that she was ignorant of the great honor he had conferred upon her by even considering a mixed-breed wife. Half American and half Vietnamese? Why, he exclaimed, she wasn’t fit to scrub his floors.
That was the moment at which Lilia agreed with his highness: he should leave her disgraceful hovel immediately and never return. So much for Li’s beautiful manners and courteous demeanor. Jerk!
She felt a late-afternoon yawn coming on, and delicately covered her mouth with her hand. She’d been through tougher things than this; most recently the loss of her grandmother, who’d raised her. “I’m not afraid of cowboys, Jane. I can handle Dan Granger.”
2
A RED-BLOODED AMERICAN guy does not belong in some friggin’ charm school.
Dan wiped the sweat from his eyes, neck and naked chest. He stood in faded Wranglers and beat-up ropers at his kitchen sink in Amarillo, Texas, feeling pissed off and reflecting that time ran faster than the water from his faucet.
Lilia London’s voice had been like cool water, pouring down the telephone lines. Too bad he hadn’t been able to feel it on the back of his neck. Dan grabbed an old hand towel and soaked it under the tap. He wrung it out and pressed it to his face, wiping away some of the day’s grime.
Claire can’t possibly be getting married. Wasn’t his little half sister still a ten-year-old tomboy?
Through the window over the sink, Dan watched two bay quarter horses nip at each other playfully and then swat flies from their flanks with their long black tails.
Beyond their coral, his father stood in paint-spattered overalls with one of the field hands, covering the barn in a fresh coat of deep red. They’d have to scrape and paint the house, next. Dan didn’t look forward to the work, but he wouldn’t avoid it, either. It was all for a good cause: his dream of starting a boys’ retreat out here. Next summer, they’d bring twenty at-risk urban teens out to take classes and work on the ranch. He’d show them a different way of life…and a good time, too.
The interior of the house was sorely in need of a woman’s touch, and had been since his mother’s departure twenty-two years ago. While Dan wasn’t inclined to shop for floral curtains or wallpaper borders, he did see to it that the house was well-maintained on the outside.
Inside they still had the same beat-up plaid sofa they’d had since 1977 and the same worn avocado-green recliner with the ugly crocheted afghan that his aunt Mary Beth had made. Dan had added an area rug he’d had in college, which lent the room a certain something: the smell of old beer.
The walls held nothing but a functional calendar, courtesy of John Deere, and some photos of Dan as a child and his parents. The bridal photograph of his mother in her long white dress was conspicuously absent.
The focal point of the living room was a massive forty-eight-inch wide-screen television, which he’d rather be watching than remembering the conversation he’d had with Mama three weeks ago. It still rankled.
Dan had been scrubbing the dirt out from under his fingernails when the phone rang. The sound was shrill and unrelenting, like a nagging wife. He’d been sorely tempted to ignore it. But with a sigh he’d knocked the faucet to the off position with an elbow and grabbed for the worn dish towel on the countertop. Then he’d picked up the phone and, by doing so, sealed his miserable fate.
“Yo, Granger here.”
The connection sounded fuzzy, thousands of miles away, and he didn’t need caller ID to know who it was.
Mama…calling from England. He took a deep breath and cracked his neck, his gaze resting again on the stoop-shouldered figure of his father.
“Daniel, really. What kind of greeting is that?” Her voice was peppered with disapproval.
It never ceased to amuse him that the former Louella Granger had trained her West Texas drawl, like some hardy vine, to climb a worldly trellis until it flowered into a British accent.
“It’s a functional greetin’,” he told her. “Brief, to the point, states who I am. No bullshit about it, Mama.”
“Mummy. Please, call me Mummy, dear boy. And don’t curse.”
Dan grimaced. Dear boy? Christ. Oh, I say, old chaps. Are y’all fixin’ to watch the telly? “Apologies, Mama. How are you?”
“Splendid! And you?”
“Can’t complain. Dad’s fine, too, by the way.”
She expelled an audible breath.
He added, “Salutations to dear Nigel, of course.”
“Daniel, your sarcasm is not appreciated.”
“Sarcasm?”
“Nigel is a lovely man. I’m very lucky.”
Uh-huh. Nigel-the-Lovely had broken up Dan’s parents’ marriage without a qualm and whisked Louella off to Merry Olde England without her fourteen-year-old son.
Nigel, being a real peach, hadn’t wanted a sullen teenager weighing down the bliss of his new marriage. And Louella had preferred the guilt of leaving her son behind to the realities of raising him. She was very sorry for the way things had turned out, but young Dan had been a little wild and needed the firm guidance that only his father could give him. He was to visit for a month out of every summer though. Wasn’t that just divine?
Nope. Dan couldn’t stomach tea and crumpets and Lovely Nigel. He’d lasted for exactly ten days on his first visit before announcing that he hated Nigel’s stuffy mausoleum, he couldn’t stand British food and there was no way in hell he’d ever call Mama “Mummy.” He’d taken the first available flight to Dallas. Hard to believe that was twenty-two years ago. Even harder to believe that little Claire, his twenty-one-year-old half sister, was now getting married in just three short weeks. Claire had been the only bright spot in his visits.
Mama waxed poetic and floral about the upcoming wedding, while all he could think about was how he’d adored his little barefoot hellion of a sister. In an odd arrangement, she’d come to visit a few times with Mama.
Claire the sweet, funny tomboy with the sunny personality and Nigel’s snooty accent. Dan had taught her to appreciate the value of a good peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich on Wonder bread instead of those vile crumpets. And as for tea—the only way to drink the stuff, as far as Dan was concerned, was cold and sweet, with a healthy dose of lemon. No fussy porcelain with curlicue handles. No silver sugar tongs. No milk.
“So, darling,” his mother said, her voice holding a note of determination. “I said you’d call her. You understand it’s only for Claire that I ask.”
Huh? He’d obviously missed something. “Mama, I’m sorry—my mind was wandering. Who am I supposed to call?”
“Lilia London, Daniel. Of Finesse.”
“And why am I supposed to call this woman?”
“Daniel! I may as well have been talking to a stump. Now listen to me this time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“As I told you, Claire’s fiancé is a gentleman of impeccable lineage, and the family is very prominent. His father has a seat in the House of Lords. He’s a viscount.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Well, the thing is, Claire wants to be sure the wedding and reception go smoothly. And she doesn’t want to…” his mother trailed off delicately. “She would like to avoid embarrassment. Not to mention that she’d like you to be comfortable—”
“I’ll be fine. I couldn’t care less about rubbing shoulders with the snoots. I’ll hang out with the common folk. The, uh, hoi polloi, I believe you call them.”
“Yes, well. I’m afraid that there won’t be any common folk at the festivities, Daniel. That’s rather the issue here, darling.”
Dan felt irritation spark somewhere in the region of his liver. Now what? “Would you like me to just stay in the kitchen, then, Mama? Wash the pots and pans?”
“Of course not, silly goose! What a mad idea.” She trilled with laughter. “It would never do for the bride’s brother to be working in the kitchen.”
Of course not. Bad for the family image.
“But you have to admit that you’re rather rough around the edges, and this will be a challenging social situation. Five forks at the sit-down dinner, you know. Ballroom dancing with a live orchestra. And a Sunday morning mini-steeplechase—it should have been a hunt, but the horrid government put an end to that—followed by a champagne luncheon.”
Dan tried to imagine what in the hell anybody did with five forks at one meal, besides use them to stab obnoxious dinner companions whose politics you didn’t agree with.
“…so I want you to call Lilia, dearest. She’ll work with you for the next two weeks. Teach you conversation, table etiquette and dancing. She’s going to outfit you with proper clothes, too.”
The irritation in Dan’s liver flamed into full-fledged annoyance, not to mention hurt. “You have got to be kiddin’ me. You want to train me like a chimp just for this blasted, stupid, redcoat wedding?”
“It’s not blasted and stupid! It’s the most important day—weekend—of your sister’s life. This is a very small favor to ask.”
“Uh-huh. And how much will this small favor cost? Is Lovely Nigel footing the bill?”
Silence. “Daniel, you’ve done very well for yourself with the ranching and the oil leases. There is no reason Nigel should be asked to…to…pay for your civilization.”
Dan stuck a finger in his ear and jiggled it, hard. “My what? Did I hear you right? Did you just say my civilization?”
Louella sighed. “It’s only a figure of speech.”
“It’s a figure of speech that implies you think I’m a savage!”
“Daniel, on my last visit I distinctly remember you eating some sort of vile pasta product direct from the can with a plastic spoon. You also slept in your clothes.”
“I was twenty-two years old! That’s how long it’s been since you’ve visited.”
“Well, I don’t have a great deal of confidence that things have improved much. You may now eat your food from the pot with a fork, that’s all.”
Dan hated to admit it, but she was right.
“You need some guidance.”
“This is insulting. And I gotta point out that you are the one who brought me up until you left. We never used five forks at our dinner table, Mama. One was good enough for you then. Dad and I were good enough for you then. So was Amarillo. But I guess all that has changed.”
An awkward silence ensued, and Dan was human enough to savor it. She felt guilty. Well, she should.
Her Southern accent came through more than a little as she said, “Danny, I’m sorry. But I don’t know how to fix it now.”
There is no fixing it now. But he didn’t say it aloud. He stared out at the sparse, dry Amarillo landscape, watching the sun set over the parched grass, scrub and mesquite. Unforgiving, this land was. But so beautiful in a rough, raw way. You couldn’t force somebody to appreciate it. They just had to feel it in their bones. And if their bones belonged elsewhere…
Dan sighed. How she could prefer cold and fog and miserable drizzle to the baked heat of Texas, he didn’t know. But he supposed she’d done what she had to do: escape. He’d have to forgive her one day.
“Just do it for Claire. Please, Daniel,” she said. “Her wedding is very important to her.”
“Why didn’t she ask me herself?”
“She was too embarrassed. She was afraid to hurt your feelings.”
Oh, I see. But you have no worries about that…
“Will you do it, Daniel?” His mother’s voice was insistent. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She’d just keep calling and badger him to death.
Dan sighed. “Who is this woman again?”
“She’s the etiquette consultant for a Connecticut-based company called Finesse. They’re excellent and come highly recommended. Now write this down.”
Dan’s mind returned to the present.
For Claire. Not for Mama. It’s for Claire that I’m doing this. He was damned if he’d embarrass her at her own wedding. And he didn’t know how to fix himself to her satisfaction.
Dan rubbed a weary hand across the slight fur of his chest when he hung up. He stared at the name and number he’d scrawled. Lilia London. What a priss-pot, pretentious name. He’d bet it was made up, like a stage name, to fit her profession.
He imagined himself calling her. Well, Martha Stewart was in jail, so I contacted you…
Claire’s request hurt. He’d never ask her to change one bit…but all the indicators pointed to the fact that she had. She’d become the sort of person who cared about forks and steeplechases and image. Well, tally friggin’ ho. He was off to Farmington, Connecticut.
DESPITE HER SNOTTY NAME, Dan entertained himself on the long flight by trying to imagine what Lilia London looked like.
Her voice was cool, elegant and pure. Like the finest vodka poured neat—straight from the freezer. It was the voice of a 1950’s movie star: an untouchable, impeccable but oh-so-sexy Audrey Hepburn. Audrey in sterling silver garters.
Dan couldn’t get Lilia’s crisp enunciation and continental accent out of his baked Texas brain. Truth to tell, her voice did strange and embarrassing things to him. His soldier had come right to attention; a missile at the ready, locking on target. The soldier eagerly anticipated five farks, but not the kind you set next to a dinner plate.
Dan told him to stand down. And at ease. Because though Lilia London’s voice still echoed in his head, she was over a thousand miles away and he didn’t even know what she looked like. She could be the size of a redwood tree, with a beard and manly hands. But somehow he didn’t think so. He had a feeling that her voice was bigger than she was. She’d be petite and porcelain, the kind of girl who got caught in a dapper hero’s fierce embrace by the end of an old film. The closed-mouth kiss was passionate enough to rattle her pearls, but Metro Goldwyn Meyer soon faded her to black, fully clothed.
The Audreys of the world wouldn’t know what to do in contemporary Hollywood. Dan tried and failed to imagine her in current love scenes. They would ruin her mystique. Tarnish the whole concept of a lady.
Dan closed his eyes and drifted off into a light, fitful sleep. He kept seeing a ten-year-old Claire walking down the aisle of a church, wearing jeans with holes in the knees. She got to the end and took the hand of a pompous ass in tails and a top hat. The kind of guy the English would refer to as a real “prat.” Ugh.
Dan awoke as the jet landed with a bump. The roar of brakes filled his ears while the flight attendants commanded everyone to stay seated until the captain had turned off the seat belt sign. They hoped he’d enjoyed his flight, had a pleasant stay at his final destination and would think of their airline again next time he traveled.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Dan pulled his overnight bag out of the overhead compartment, helped an older woman with hers and waited with the rest of the herd to get off the plane.
A walk through the terminal and a rental car later, he emerged from Bradley Airport’s roundabout and onto the highway. He was a forty minute drive from his destination of Farmington, Connecticut, home of the legendary Miss Porter’s preparatory school for young women. Maybe Farmington was chock full of Audrey Hepburns. It wasn’t such a horrible vista to contemplate, since she was a hot little babe.
If only he could meet the Audreys without taking classes in some friggin’ charm school.
LILIA LOOKED UP from her computer as the glass door of Finesse opened with a bit of a crash and something dropped to the floor with a thud. She left her delicate reading glasses on her nose as she got up and walked to the door of her office.
“Howdy!” said a tall, tanned, younger version of the Marlboro Man. He wore Western boots. He sported a belt buckle the size of a satellite dish, affixed to a hand-tooled leather belt that she was terribly afraid had his name etched into the back—the distressing equivalent of a dog collar, as far as she was concerned. And worse, far worse, he actually wore a Stetson on his head. The two-day stubble she could live with, since it was in vogue and somewhat George Clooneyish. The scarred, weathered hands might be a problem in his transformation. But his posture was good—excellent for such a tall man.
And the bulge in his pants was quite impressive…. Shocked at herself for even letting her eyes wander there, Lilia blushed. She ended her quick inventory with a gracious hello.
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