Promises, Promises. Shelley Cooper
summarize a company’s financial situation in thirty words or less.
When asked for a résumé, seductress and temptress had never made the list. For heaven’s sake, she wore high-necked cotton nightgowns in the summer and flannel pajamas in the winter. She never slept in the nude, something—if that loosely belted bathrobe was any indication—she suspected Marco Garibaldi was quite comfortable doing. Face it, she knew as much about having a wild, crazy affair as she did about flying a rocket to the moon.
Her recent encounter with the doctor in question more than bore out that conclusion. She hadn’t exactly gotten off to a rousing start, so far as seduction was concerned. Although she could have sworn that, for the briefest of seconds, she’d actually seen a flare of interest in his eyes. She’d even imagined that he’d reached out to her. Of course, the minute he’d all but tripped over his feet in his haste to get away from her, she’d realized how mistaken she’d been.
Good thing Jill hadn’t given her a time limit to accomplish everything she’d promised she would do, because something told Gretchen her powers of seduction needed a complete overhaul.
She was making headway on the rest of her promises, though. Over the three weeks that had passed since she’d listened to Jill’s tape, she’d done a lot of thinking on how she would spend the money Jill had left her. To date, she’d solicited bids to have the years of grit and grime covering the outside of her duplex sandblasted away and to have the bricks themselves repointed. Next week, central air-conditioning would be installed, and she and her tenant could throw away the window units that were working overtime in this heat. While the expenses could hardly be called impractical, it was money she normally wouldn’t have spent.
She’d also filled out an application to compete in a piano competition in Morgantown, West Virginia, next November. The age cutoff was thirty, which meant she would just squeak in under the wire. This truly was her last chance to find out whether she had any talent, and, if she was accepted, she had only a little more than four months to prepare. She was nervous, but she was also excited.
Filling out the application and writing the check for the entry fee had been the easy part. Much harder had been sitting down at the piano itself.
Though she’d kept the upright in tune, she’d rarely played it these past years. She didn’t know why, other than that when she’d given up her dream she’d also given up playing. She’d even, after her parents died, had the piano moved from the living room into the spare bedroom on the second floor. Out of sight, out of mind, she supposed.
Tonight, however, the minute she’d rolled back the lid from the keyboard, she’d lost herself in the wonder of the music. It had been obvious from the first note that she had a long way to go before she was ready to compete. But, oh, the joy of playing again. She’d forgotten how wonderful it felt to run her fingers over the keys and the sense that always filled her when she sat down to play—that the world was a wonderful place and that all things were possible.
She’d played the same piece over and over again, a Beethoven sonatina that was perfect for stretching lazy fingers. Marco Garibaldi had thought she was playing a CD. Surely that was a good sign. Surely that meant she hadn’t grown irredeemably rusty and that she had a chance.
Yes, she decided as she pushed off the door and turned to see that it was properly bolted, she was making progress. She was doing everything she could to keep the promises she had made.
Everything, that is, except try to find a way to seduce her tenant. She’d been putting off the hardest task for last, which was totally unlike her. When it came to work, she had always done the thing she least wanted to do first, getting it out of the way so she could enjoy the tasks that made her job such a pleasure.
She supposed she was dragging her feet because she had little confidence that she would succeed. Also, she’d never been lucky where affairs of the heart were concerned. An engagement had ended when she’d decided to care for her dying father. Subsequent relationships had all been unsatisfying. When Jill got sick two years ago, Gretchen had abandoned dating altogether, in order to spend as much time as possible with her friend.
She thought of the men she’d dated: sedate, sensible, dependable. Or, as Jill had so succinctly put it, dull, dull, dull. Then she thought of the women she’d seen on Marco Garibaldi’s arm. Beautiful. Vibrant. Vivacious. Anything but dull. She’d have to do something drastic, if she was ever going to compete with them.
Just how did a person go about having a wild, crazy affair? How could she make Marco Garibaldi look at her like she was one of the beautiful women he frequently squired, instead of his landlady? Gretchen didn’t have the first idea, but she knew someone who might.
“Do you have a minute?”
Gretchen peered around the office door of the senior partner of Curtis, Walker, Davis and Associates. Gary Curtis had been her mentor and friend from the day she was hired to work for the firm. Aside from Marco Garibaldi, he was the most virile-looking and devastatingly handsome man she had ever met. Good thing she loved him like a brother because he was also gay. She’d seen more than one smitten woman delude herself into believing she could change the way nature had made him, only to wind up heartbroken in the end.
Gary closed the file he was reviewing and smiled at her. “For you, I’ve always got time. Come in.”
After carefully closing the door, Gretchen took a seat.
“What’s the problem?” Gary asked. “Is this about the Harrison account?”
“No.” She made a show of crossing her legs at the ankles and smoothing her skirt while she gathered her thoughts. “It’s…personal.”
“Sounds serious.”
She drew a deep breath. “It is. I need your advice, Gary. About men.”
A light of interest gleamed in his eyes. “What about them?”
“This is going to sound stupid, but I was wondering if you could tell me how I should go about attracting one.”
Gary spread his arms. “Gay men I know. Straight men…” He shrugged. “That’s a whole ’nother story.”
“Your brother’s straight, isn’t he?”
“As a ruler.”
“Does he look like you?”
“People have been known to remark on the resemblance. Why?”
“That means he’s a handsome devil, which means women must like him.”
Gary’s lips curved. “Let me put it this way. They often come to blows over the favor of his company.”
“That’s what I was hoping for,” she said. “I want you to pretend you’re him for a few minutes. Can you do that?”
“I think I can manage it.”
Like an actor preparing for a role, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and drew in a deep, cleansing breath. When he opened them again he said, “Okay. I’m a macho, heterosexual male who is irresistible to women. What do you want to know?”
She knew he expected her to smile, but she regarded him intently instead. “What would I have to do to get you to want me?”
“Are we talking purely physical here, or something deeper?”
“Purely physical.”
He nodded. “You want it flat out on the table, or sugar-coated?”
She squared her shoulders. “Flat out on the table.”
Tilting his head, he ran his gaze over her. “Okay. For starters, stop slouching. You’re tall. Accept it. And lose the suits. They’re way too businesslike, and I assume you have a figure under there, somewhere. Your legs, what little I can see of them, seem nice. You need to accentuate them. Buy lots of dresses. Short dresses. By short, I mean nothing longer than the top of your knees. And a push-up bra. It’ll give you cleavage.
“You