Texas Glory. Joan Elliott Pickart
You’re doomed.”
“I wanted to know,” Bram yelled.
“It wasn’t the appropriate time or place, dumbbell.”
“Ah-ha!” Bram said, pointing one finger in the air. “See? There’s that word again. My blunders are going to be magnified tenfold by someone whose profession is centered on appropriate behavior.”
“Yep,” Tux said, nodding slowly. “I do believe you’re right, which is unusual for you.”
“This is going to call for finesse, expertise, a very carefully thought through approach.”
“That leaves you out. Forget Glory Carson.”
“Not a chance.” Bram got to his feet, reached across the desk and tore the page from the telephone book.
“Hey!” Tux said.
“I need this. Thanks, Tux. Hug Nancy for me. Don’t forget to feed the panda. He likes hamburgers and fries, no mustard, extra catsup. See ya.”
Tux watched his brother stride from the room, then turned to look at the bear.
“Count your blessings that you’re going to live with me, Nancy and our baby, kiddo,” he said to the panda.
Friday at noon, Glory sat at the desk in her office, eating the lunch she’d packed at home. She usually studied the files of her afternoon clients during the break, but today she found she couldn’t concentrate.
The week since she’d returned from the seminar in Austin had seemed especially long, the days dragging by. She’d recuperated energywise after a solid night’s sleep on Sunday, had typed the notes from the conference into a semblance of order and placed them into appropriate files in the cabinet.
Glory sighed.
What she had not managed to do during the week was to follow her own firm directives to put Bram Bishop out of her mind.
For some unknown and very annoying reason, Bram had hovered in her mind’s eye, the image so clear she could actually hear his rich voice and rumbly laughter.
She’d purposely scooted into the aisle of the airplane as quickly as possible when she’d seen that Bram was busy helping passengers retrieve their possessions from the overhead compartments.
While she’d chalked up her disconcerting feminine reaction to Bram’s masculine magnetism as bone-weary fatigue, she was still shaken, still felt vulnerable.
She had removed herself from Bram’s presence on the plane, knowing with relief she’d never see him again.
Ha, she thought dismally. Never see Bram Bishop again? That wasn’t quite how the week had gone. The man and his silly panda had followed her into her dreams at night, causing her to toss and turn.
It was so ridiculous. Bram was just a man. Well, okay, he was the best-looking male specimen she’d ever encountered in her twenty-seven years, but that was beside the point.
Also of no importance was the masculine aura that emanated from Bram, the blatant male sexuality, the crackling whatever-it-was that had woven over, around and within her with disturbing, heated intensity.
Glory covered the unfinished fruit salad with a plastic lid, replaced it in an insulated bag beneath her desk, then got to her feet and roamed restlessly around the office.
As if the strange week she’d just spent wasn’t bad enough, she fumed, she still had this afternoon to get through.
Each morning her secretary, Margot, placed the files of the day’s appointments on Glory’s desk. So what had she discovered at nine o’clock?
Bram Bishop had an appointment to see her at one, right after the lunch break.
Why?
Why would Bram make an appointment with a marriage counselor?
How had he even discovered where she was? She had not told him what she did for a living, nor corrected his use of Ms. to Dr.
Bram had somehow tracked her down, and in less than fifteen minutes he would be walking into her office.
What on earth did he want?
“Calm down, Glory Carson,” she told herself aloud. “You’re acting like an idiot.”
She marched into the small bathroom off the office, freshened her lipstick and smoothed back her hair. Her fingertips lingered on the figure-eight bun at the back of her head.
How long is your hair when it’s falling free?
Bram’s words spoken on the airplane echoed in Glory’s head, and she glared at her image in the mirror.
“Would you stop it?” she said to her reflection.
With a cluck of self-disgust, she left the bathroom and returned to her desk, placing Bram’s empty file squarely in front of her.
When Bram arrived, Margot would request that he fill out a new-client form, which the secretary would give to Glory when Bram was escorted from the reception area into the office.
At the moment, however, the file was devoid of paper, and was devoid of answers as to why Bram had made an appointment to see her.
Maybe, she thought suddenly, he’d lied when he’d said he wasn’t married. Maybe he was having problems in his marriage because he flirted with women other than his wife. Women, for example, who he encountered on airplanes. Maybe he needed professional help to be able to be faithful to his wedding vows.
Bram Bishop married? Yes, that was a definite possibility and would certainly explain why he wished to see her in her professional arena.
What didn’t make sense was why the thought of Bram being in a committed relationship was extremely depressing.
Glory pressed her fingertips to her temples where a stress headache was beginning to throb.
Bram Bishop was driving her crazy, right out of her mind.
She narrowed her eyes.
Actually, now that she thought about it, she was glad Bram was coming to the office today. Because she was no longer in a state of exhaustion, she’d be able to view Bram in a normal light.
Yes, he was handsome, but so were a multitude of other men. Yes, he had beautiful blue eyes, but so did millions of other men. Yes, he had a nice physique, a dazzling smile, a sexy laugh, but big deal. He was just a man—no more, no less. And now Bram Bishop was just a client—no more, no less.
Thank goodness, Glory thought, she’d gotten all that straightened out. She was under control, calm, cool and collected.
The telephone on her desk buzzed.
And she’d straightened out just in the nick of time, she mentally tacked on.
Glory lifted the receiver at the same moment she pressed the button with the blinking light in the row at the base of the telephone.
“Yes, Margot?” she said.
“Mr. Bishop is here for his appointment.”
Tell him I went home, Glory’s mind yelled. Tell him I died. Tell him... Glory, get a grip.
“Show him in, please, Margot.”
Glory replaced the receiver, drew a steadying breath, then got to her feet. She came around the side of her desk, as she did when she greeted all clients upon their arrival.
Bram was just a man, she mentally repeated. No more, no less.
The door to the office opened and Margot stepped back to allow Bram to enter.
Wrong, Glory thought frantically. Bram Bishop was more—much more—than any man she’d previously met. Her fully rested state was doing nothing to diminish the sensual impact he was having on her as he walked slowly toward her.