Honeymoon For Three. Sandra Field
She was wearing regulation white shorts and T-shirt, her hair in a thick braid down her back. As she stood poised to serve, Slade could see her breasts heaving and the sweat trickling down her neck; her legs were long, their grace in no way lessened by the taut calf muscles. Involuntarily his body hardened in response.
Scowling, he flicked his gaze to her partner. Joe Purchell was taller than Cory, boasted a crop of black curly hair and was extremely good-looking. He was also several years younger than Slade and, by the look of him, in better shape. Slade disliked him on sight.
The rally began. The two players were equally matched, Cory making up in intelligence what she lacked in reach. When the score had been stuck at seven-all for nearly five minutes, Slade left as unobtrusively as he’d arrived.
She played to win. But she also played for the sheer joy of the game. And she was every bit as seductive in the squash court as she’d been in bed in his dreams.
He gunned the car out of the lot and drove to the office, his mouth set in a grim line. The smartest thing he could do was say no to her proposal. A flat no. That way he wouldn’t have to see her again. Because the last thing he needed was to be lusting after a woman who almost undoubtedly was involved with someone else. Especially a woman as intense, intelligent and heart-wrenchingly beautiful as Cory Haines.
A woman like that wasn’t on the cards for him.
CHAPTER TWO
ONCE in his office, Slade plugged in the coffee machine and spread out the plans for the harborfront, forcing himself to concentrate. Years of discipline came to his rescue; when Mrs. Minglewood tapped on his door to tell him it was ten twenty-five, he’d figured out what was wrong with the boardwalk and had come up with an inventive and ingenious way round the parking problem. Feeling well pleased with himself, he ran downstairs to meet Cory.
The snow had melted and a pale, unconvincing sun was bathing the street in an equally pale warmth. He’d tell her that on reflection he’d decided against her proposal; this would save both of them the time and trouble of inspecting the two sites. Then he’d forget about her. In a couple of weeks he’d be back in Toronto, where he belonged.
Ten-thirty came and went. Ten thirty-five, then ten-forty. Anxiety began to gnaw at his gut; somehow he was sure she wasn’t a woman to be late. Then at ten forty-three a small green truck with “Haines Landscaping” emblazoned in gold on its side panels sneaked in between two cars and drew up at the curb with a jolt. Cory leaned over and unlatched the door. As Slade pulled it open she said incoherently, “I’m so sorry I’m late; I’m never late; my mother had a thing about punctuality and it’s ingrained in me. I can’t stand keeping someone waiting... I do apologize, Mr. Redden.”
He’d intended to stand firm on the sidewalk and deliver his speech and then go back to the office. Instead Slade found himself climbing into the truck beside her, his eyes glued to her face. She looked pale and distraught, a very different creature from the woman he’d watched at the squash club only three hours earlier.
Watched? Spied on would be more accurate. “What’s wrong?” he rapped.
“Nothing! I told you, I just hate being late.”
“What’s wrong, Cory?” he repeated.
It was the first time Slade Redden had used her first name. And it was quite clear he’d sit there until she answered him. Cory said rapidly, “The reason I’m late is because my best friend had a baby this morning—her second. I got the message when I got to work, so I had to rush to the hospital, and then I was late for my other appointment.” She gave a weak giggle. “A retired RCMP inspector whose ideas on punctuality would rival my mother’s.”
“And your friend? Was everything OK?”
“Yes! Yes, of course.”
“You don’t look particularly happy about it.”
Her head jerked round. He saw far too much, this man with the cool gray eyes. Trying to subdue the storm of emotions that had been rampaging through her body ever since she’d seen Sue at the hospital, Cory snapped, “Of course I’m happy for her.”
“Yeah? Could have fooled me.”
In a loud voice she said, “I’m very happy ... she has a lovely eight-pound boy. I’m extremely happy.” She scowled into her rearview mirror and pulled out into the traffic with scant regard for the clutch. “We’ll go to Cornell Street first.”
Slade had no idea what was going on, other than that she looked like a volcano about to erupt. He said mildly, “You know, that’s the first time in our acquaintance that you’ve been less than truthful with me.”
“Mr. Redden, I’m—”
“Slade, please.”
Cory was unable to think of any diplomatic way to get him off her case. She couldn’t possibly explain all her tangled and contradictory feelings to him because she didn’t understand them herself. She said in a clipped voice, “My personal life is just that—personal. I would never have told you about Sue if I hadn’t been late.”
Why did he feel as though she’d slapped him in the face when she was only verbalizing something he fully subscribed to? Business was business, and to mix the personal with it was a bad mistake; he’d learned that very early in his career. So what the hell was he doing sitting in this truck when all his instincts had urged him to cut the connection with her?
Not sure whether he was angrier with her or with himself, Slade said tersely, “What sort of time frame are you looking at for these projects?”
With evident relief she said, “I’d get at them as soon as possible. Spring is a really busy time for me, but I’ve hired a couple of extra helpers along with my right-hand man, so I’d be able to handle it.”
Was Joe Purchell her right-hand man? And what was that if not a personal question? “So the gardens could be available for this summer?”
“Absolutely.” She swung down a side street and parked near a corner lot decorated with rubble and a large “For Sale” sign. Her nerves vibrating like piano wire because the next half hour was crucial, Cory slid down from the truck in her neat khaki trousers and work boots and led the way across the street. “I’d make evergreens a priority, so the park would look good in winter,” she said eagerly. “But you can see how the maple would provide a lot of shade in summer. I think a couple of winding paths would be a good idea—with lots of benches.”
He glanced around. “Would vandalism be a problem?”
“I’ve thought of that.” Enthusiasm warmed her voice. “Rather than beds of brightly colored flowers that might encourage people to rip them up or trample on them, I’d focus on foliage. Hostas and ferns. Low-growing junipers—some of them come in lovely soft blue-greens. Then some middle-height yews and flowering shrubs, plus three or four well-placed granite rocks—a bit of a Japanese influence. I might have a red-leafed Japanese maple as well; they’re slow-growing but very effective with evergreens. Here, I’ve done a computer mock-up.”
He perused the paper she had unfolded, which transformed the deserted lot into a peaceful and harmonious oasis in the city streets. “What about a fountain?”
She grimaced. “That gets pricey. Although it would be wonderful.”
“I have a friend who designs fountains that are both vandal-proof and beautiful,” he murmured. “The sound of water can be very soothing. I think your focus on foliage is brilliant, by the way.”
Cory flushed with pleasure; he wasn’t a man to hand out idle compliments. “The birds would appreciate a fountain, too,” she said pertly.
“Keep the pigeons and the people happy?”
She laughed. “Right! Have you seen enough? I don’t want to make you late for your next appointment.”
On the way to