Man In Control. Diana Palmer
guest of honor!”
“Lord, give me a bus ticket!” He moved toward the door. “Sorry, honey, I’m not into masochism, and a night of unadulterated Kirry would put me in a mental ward. I’m leaving.”
“But you just got here!” Margie wailed.
He turned at the door. “You should have told me who was coming to the party. I’d still be in San Antonio. Want to come with me, Jodie?” he offered. “I’ll take you to a fiesta!”
Margie looked murderous. “She’s my friend.”
“She’s not, or you wouldn’t have forced her down here to suffer Kirry all weekend,” he added.
“Give me a minute to get out of the line of fire, will you?” Jodie held up her hands and went back to the dining room to scoop up dirty dishes, forcibly smiling.
Derek glanced at the closed door, and moved closer to Margie. “Don’t try to convince me that you don’t know how Jodie feels about your brother.”
“She got over that old crush years ago, she said so!” Margie returned.
“She lied,” he said shortly. “She’s as much in love with him as she ever was, not that either of you ever notice! It’s killing her just to be around him, and you stick her with Kirry. How do you think she’s going to feel, watching Kirry slither all over Cobb for a whole night?”
Margie bit her lower lip and looked hunted. “She said…”
“Oh, sure, she’s going to tell you that she’s in love with Cobb.” He nodded. “Great instincts, Marge.”
“Don’t call me Marge!”
He bent and brushed an insolent kiss across her parted lips, making her gasp. His dark eyes narrowed as he assayed the unwilling response. “Never thought of me like that, either, huh?” he drawled.
“You’re…my…cousin,” she choked.
“I’m no close relation to you at all, despite Cobb’s antagonism. One day I’m going to walk out the door with you over my shoulder, and Cobb can do his worst.” He winked at her. “See you, sweetheart.”
He turned and ambled out the door. Margie was still staring after him helplessly and holding her hand to her lips when Jodie came in with another stack of dishes.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jodie asked.
“Derek kissed me,” she said in a husky tone.
“He’s always kissing you.”
Margie swallowed hard. “Not like this.”
Jodie’s eyebrows went up and she grinned. “I thought it was about time.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Jodie said at once. “Here, can you open the dishwasher for me? My hands are full.”
Margie broke out of her trance and went to help, shell-shocked and quiet.
“Don’t let Derek upset you,” Jodie said gently. “He thinks he’s doing me a favor, but he’s not. I don’t mind helping out, in any way I can. I owe you and Cobb so much…”
“You don’t owe us a thing,” Margie said at once. “Oh, Jodie, you shouldn’t let me make use of you like this. You should speak up for yourself. You don’t do that enough.”
“I know. It’s why I haven’t advanced in the company,” she had to admit. “I just don’t like confrontations.”
“You had enough of them as a kid, didn’t you?” Margie asked.
Jodie flushed. “I loved my parents. I really did.”
“But they fought, too. Just like ours. Our mother hated our father, even after he was dead. She drank and drank, trying to forget him, just the same. She soured my brother on women, you know. She picked on him from the time he was six, and every year it got worse. He had a roaring inferiority complex when he was in high school.”
“Yes? Well, he’s obviously got over it now,” Jodie said waspishly.
Margie shook her head. “Not really. If he had, he’d know he could do better than Kirry.”
“I thought you liked her!”
Margie looked shamefaced. “I do, sort of. Well, she’s got an important job and she could really help me get my foot in the door at Weston’s, the exclusive department store where she works.”
“Oh, Margie,” Jodie said wearily, shaking her head.
“I use people,” Margie admitted. “But,” she added brightly, “I try to do it in a nice way, and I always send flowers or presents or something afterward, don’t I?”
Jodie laughed helplessly. “Yes, you do,” she admitted. “Here, help me load up the dishes, and then you can tell me what sort of canapés you want me to make for tomorrow.”
She didn’t add that she knew she’d spend the whole day tomorrow making them, because the party was for almost forty people, and lunch had to be provided as well. It was a logistical nightmare. But she could cope. She’d done it before. And Margie was her best friend.
Three
Jodie was up at dawn making biscuits and dough for the canapés. She’d only just taken up breakfast when Alexander came into the kitchen, wearing jeans and boots and a long-sleeved chambray shirt. He looked freshly showered and clean-shaven, his dark hair still damp.
“I’ve got breakfast,” Jodie offered without looking too closely at him. He was overpowering in tight jeans and a shirt unbuttoned to his collarbone, where thick curling black hair peeked out. She had to fight not to throw herself at him.
“Coffee?” he murmured.
“In the pot.”
He poured himself a cup, watching the deft motions of her hands as she buttered biscuits and scooped eggs onto a platter already brimming over with bacon and sausages.
“Aren’t you eating?” he asked as he seated himself at the table.
“Haven’t time,” she said, arranging a layer of canapés on a baking sheet. “Most of your guests are coming in time for lunch, so these have to be done now, before I get too busy.”
His sensuous lips made a thin line. “I can’t stand him, but Derek is right about one thing. You do let Margie use you.”
“You and Margie were there when I had nobody else,” she said without seeing the flinch of his eyelids. “I consider that she’s entitled to anything I can ever do for her.”
“You sell yourself short.”
“I appreciate it when people do things for me without being asked,” she replied. She put the canapés in the oven and set the timer, pushing back sweaty hair that had escaped from her bun.
His eyes went over her figure in baggy pants and an oversize T-shirt. “You dress like a bag lady,” he muttered.
She glanced at him, surprised. “I dress very nicely at work.”
“Like a dowager bag lady,” he corrected. “You wear the same sort of clothes you favored when you were overweight. You’re not anymore. Why don’t you wear things that fit?”
It was surprising that he noticed her enough to even know what she was wearing. “Margie’s the fashion model, not me,” she reminded him. “Besides, I’m not the type for trendy stuff. I’m just ordinary.”
He frowned. She had a real ego problem. He and Margie hadn’t done much for it, either. She accepted anything that was thrown at her, as if she deserved it. He was surprised how much it bothered him, to see her so undervalued even by herself. Not that he was interested in her, he added silently.