Open Invitation? Read online

  “My grandparents, Sir Henry and Lisbeth London. He was British. She’s American. They met during World War II.”

  “Sir Henry?”

  “Yes. He was knighted by the queen for distinguished work in the sciences—meaning that he discovered a preservative for tinned meat. Not terribly glamorous, but useful.” She smiled.

  “No sh—uh, kidding! He musta made a killing off that.”

  “Mr. Granger, it’s not at all polite to comment about someone’s financial status—especially not face-to-face.”

  “All I said was—”

  “It can be construed as fishing for information.”

  “Well, don’t construe it that way, because I didn’t mean—and why can’t you say ‘take’? Nice, plain English.” He shook his head.

  Lilia tightened her lips. “One, when words have left your mouth, you have no control over how they are taken. Two, what isn’t plain English about the word ‘construe’? And three, Sir Henry didn’t file a patent in time, so he never made much off his preservative, sad to say. Which is why I have a job.”

  He folded his arms across his broad chest and uncrossed his long legs. His boot began to tap on the floor. “You’re very formal, Miz London.”

  “I’m an etiquette consultant, Mr. Granger. And I’m sorry if I’m annoying you, but you did come to me for guidance.” She gazed at him steadily.

  He didn’t growl, but he looked as if he wanted to. “Tell me about the younger couple in the other frame. The Asian lady and the officer.”

  She nodded. “My parents, Lieutenant Bryce and Su Yi London. They met while my father was stationed in Vietnam. He finished his first tour, then brought her home as his bride. They had six months together before he was called for a second tour. He didn’t return.”

  “I’m real sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And your mother? Does she still live in the States?”

  “No. She died of a rare blood disorder when I was small. My grandmother raised me.” This conversation is getting too personal. “More coffee, Mr. Granger?”

  “Again, I’m sorry—uh, no thank you.”

  “A cookie? A strawberry?” She held out the tray to him. He selected a butter cookie and two large strawberries, putting them on his plate.

  He picked up a strawberry, cast a sidelong glance at her, and asked, “I don’t have to eat this with a fark or somethin’, do I?”

  He looked so boyish and uncertain that she chuckled. “No. You may grasp it by the stem and eat it—preferably in more than one bite.” She demonstrated by taking a small bite of her own strawberry.

  He brought the fruit to his lips and touched his tongue to it, rubbing the tip over the strawberry’s texture. Then his even, white teeth sank into it, slicing through the delicate flesh and taking it for his own.

  Lilia clamped her knees together yet again as a hot, unwelcome twinge occurred between her thighs.

  Granger licked juice from his bottom lip and devoured the rest of the strawberry while she secretly envied it and squirmed discreetly in her chair. Heaven help her if she sprouted a little green stem and matching jester’s collar.

  He tilted his head. “Are you feeling all right, Miz London?”

  “Why, I’m just fine, thank you.”

  “You sure? You look kinda like you have gas. Did you have a lot of these strawberries for breakfast or something?”

  Lilia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Mr. Granger! That isn’t a socially acceptable thing to say, either. You must never, ever tell a lady that she looks as if she has indigestion.”

  “Why not just plain gas?”

  “It’s not at all polite! Never, ever mention bodily functions or discomforts of that nature—that’s simply appalling manners.”

  “You think I’m appalling?” asked her horrifying new client, holding out an open package of Rolaids.

  She shook her head. “No, thank you, Mr. Granger. I don’t require one of those—”

  “Well, I always take two. Used to have the constitution of a goat until I hit my thirties, but now…not that I was implying that you’re, uh, aging or anything.” He stopped, seeming to realize that he was only digging himself in deeper. Then he began to laugh.

  She stared at him in disbelief, fighting the urge to bang her forehead against the polished surface of the eighteenth-century card table.

  “I guess that wasn’t too smooth, was it?”

  “Correct.”

  “So you do think I’m appalling. That’s okay, my mother does, too. That’s why I’m here. Do I have to go sit in the corner, wearing the social dunce cap, now?”

  Lil took a deep breath. “Of course I don’t find you appalling. Your manners do, ah, need some work. But instead of sitting here and correcting you all day, I think it might be beneficial for you to watch some Cary Grant films. That is the general demeanor we’re aiming for, with you. We’ll take you from crude cowboy to gentleman rancher. His civilized persona is perfect.”

  “So right now I’m uncivilized.” He winked at her.

  “I didn’t say that. You’re a bit of a rogue, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I like that. Rogue is real nice and old-fashioned. Makes me want to grow a handlebar mustache and, you know, swashbuckle a little. Is swashbuckle a verb, Miz London? And if so, how do ya do it?”

  “I don’t have the faintest idea,” Lil said, a laugh escaping her at the ridiculous concept.

  “To swashbuckle, or not to swashbuckle, that is the question…” Granger threw his arms wide and leaned back dramatically in her visitor’s chair.

  The ominous creak of before became a loud crack, and the Queen Anne disintegrated under his weight.

  Speechless, Lilia jumped up, her hand over her mouth.

  On his back, her client peered at her from between his airborn western boots. “You know,” he said, “I do believe it might be bad manners to seat your guests on ancient, decrepit furniture.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked. She extended her hand to help him up.

  “Well, I still don’t have a clue what to ‘swash’ means, but I seem to have buckled the chair.”

  “Perhaps it’s the masculine of ‘swish’? Lil suggested.

  Granger laughed. Then he took her hand and got up. He continued to hold it as they both surveyed the remnants of the chair in silence.

  “I’m real sorry,” he said.

  “I do apologize,” she said at the same time.

  A long, pregnant pause followed.

  “That’s all right. I’m sure it would be impolite for me to sue you for damages.” He grinned to soften his words.

  Lil drew her eyebrows together and tried to tug her hand from his, but he held on. Very unladylike and disconcerting sexual charges zipped from her hand to other parts of her body. Unmentionable ones.

  “Tell you what,” he said, bending his head close to hers.

  She swallowed, feeling dwarfed by his big body and mesmerized by his eyes. “What?”

  “I won’t sue you if you’ll give me a kiss.”

  4

  REAL SMOOTH, DAN. You smash the woman’s chair, make an ass out of yourself, mock her and threaten her. Now you’re trying to blackmail her and kiss her, too? What in the hell is wrong with you, man?

  But he still held her tiny, fine-boned hand captive in his, while she stared at him with those unbelievably hot, smoldering black eyes of hers. They were exotic, beautifully shaped and slanted down at the outside corners. They were framed by long, sooty lashes that, at the moment, stabbed upward like tiny black daggers toward his face.

  “You’ve got a nerve, Mr. Granger,” she said. But her hand trembled in his and her lips—pale, perfect, prim—parted ever so slightly.

  It was all the opening Dan needed. He angled his face over hers, inhaled her fragrance of jasmine and sweet floral soap, and ever-so-gently touched the tip of his tongue to her pale lips.

  Hers parted even more, surprised. He continued to taste her in ti
ny degrees, taking in the fresh strawberry essence on those lips, the faint traces of Ceylon tea, the sweetness of butter-cookies.

  Since she made no move of protest, he settled his lips on hers and kissed her hungrily, dominating her mouth with his own. She opened at his insistence and he explored her, feeling the smooth surfaces of her teeth, nipping at the plumpness of her bottom lip, and rubbing languorously against the tip of her tongue with his own.

  She made a faint, ladylike noise of either submission or approval, and it drove him wild.

  He wanted to see her naked skin, feel the flesh of her thigh, lick the curve of her breast. Tongue her nipple, hear her moan into his ear, plunge a finger inside her.

  Dan wanted to penetrate that Audrey Hepburn coolness and take her from the gates of proper to the open field of thrashingly, screamingly improper.

  He was scant inches away from closing his hand over her breast when some internal monitor in his brain informed him that it would be a very, very bad idea.

  Lilia wasn’t a woman he could push into sex. He had to make her want it as badly as he did. He had to tease her until she couldn’t help herself.

  He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. One wrong move, and he was toast. He pulled away from her and searched for her reaction.

  She refused to look him in the eye, but her breathing was fast and uneven, just the way he’d hoped. After a moment she said, “I can’t believe you just did that, Mr. Granger.” And she smoothed an invisible wrinkle out of her immaculate skirt.

  “Neither can I. But since I did, do you think you could call me Dan? And maybe, just maybe, I could call you Lilia?”

  “I suppose that would be acceptable, now that you’re not going to sue me.”

  “I was kidding about that.”

  “I know.”

  “But you kissed me anyway?”

  She tucked her dark hair behind her ears and blushed. “Well, I felt guilty about the chair.”

  Dan put his tongue into his cheek and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You sure know how to flatter a guy.”

  She dimpled, flashed her gaze upward to his, and then bent to pick up the broken chair. He should have helped her, but he stood mesmerized by the way her skirt pulled across her sweet little hips and highlighted the curves of the most perfect derriere he’d ever seen. It was a shameful waste that she sat on that, and covered it with suits, because it rivaled any ass he’d ever seen twirling around a pole. But it was the untouchable quality of it that mesmerized him.

  There wasn’t a panty line on it, either, and Dan’s mouth went dry wondering if that meant what he thought it did.

  Miss Manners, commando? Bare to the air? Oh, get a grip, Granger.

  Unfortunately that was precisely what he wanted to do: get a good grip. Each of her little cheeks would fit nicely in the palm of his hand. He’d squeeze. He’d stroke. He’d caress and then trail his fingertips inward to brush her intimate folds.

  Granger. Do you need to buy the latest issue of Playboy and lock yourself in a bathroom? Christ!

  “I, uh. I can try to fix that for you,” he said, gesturing at the chair.

  “That’s all right. I’ll take it to a furniture-maker. Are you sure you didn’t hurt your back? Your tailbone?”

  “I’m fine. I’ve fallen off a lot of horses, and they tend to be taller than your average dining room chair. Plus a chair don’t drag you by a stirrup or kick you in the head on its way back to the barn.”

  “Very true,” agreed Lilia. “They smell better, too.”

  “You don’t like the smell of a good, sweaty horse? Mmmm. I love it. Raw and salty and musky. Pungent. Laced with saddle-leather and liniment.” The only smell that comes close is…sex. But he didn’t say it aloud. That might send Miss Manners right over the edge.

  She was already staring at him as if he had three heads. “Dan, if you think horses smell good, may I enquire as to what you think smells bad?”

  He thought for a second. “Those candle shops, the ones where the fakey-fruit and sickly cinnamon and vomit-vanilla scents all combine to blow the hair right off your head when you walk in the door. Now those places stink to high heaven. I’d rather shovel out a horse stall any day than have to spend two minutes in a place like that.”

  Lilia laughed.

  He loved it when she laughed: the sound was simultaneously throaty and musical. Her pointed little chin rose, her sleek black hair a shiny curtain along her smooth, pale neck.

  Then there were the eyebrows. Lilia London had the most flawlessly groomed, dark, winged eyebrows he’d ever seen. They added to her untouchable look, yet also projected exoticism and a challenging sexuality.

  He was curious about her reaction to the kiss. He’d expected her to be flustered by it, shocked, uncomfortable in his presence afterward. Frankly he’d thought that it would put an end to their session today. But it had been a risk he took willingly, just for a taste of her.

  “You’re an unusual man, Dan,” she said. “Now, we have a lot to do in two weeks, so let’s set up a schedule. We should start analyzing your wardrobe and replacing items today. My partner Shannon is an image consultant and she will help with that. She’ll take your measurements, get your shoe size and go off shopping on her own. We’ll get a tailor in here to fit everything perfectly. But I want to take you to be fitted for at least one custom suit and, of course, your evening wear. That cannot be off-the-rack for this particular wedding.

  “I’m going to strongly suggest that you leave your boots, hat and belt…” her voice trailed off as she stared at it, “behind. Under no circumstances should they go to London with you.”

  “Whoa. My boots are the most comfortable footwear I own. In Texas you wear ’em with a suit. I’ve even seen them worn with a tux.”

  Lilia closed her eyes and visibly shuddered. “Never, ever wear boots with a suit of any kind. Please. Especially not outside of your home state. You will be the butt of jokes. You will most certainly embarrass your family at an English wedding if you do so.”

  Dan sighed. “Well, what’s wrong with my belt? It’s custom-made.”

  Her face became devoid of expression. “I strongly advise leaving that here. I’m sure the other guests will remember your name without having to read it over your backside.”

  He didn’t particularly care for her dry tone. “It’s a Western tradition. In fact, I’m having two belts made for Claire and her new husband as sorta ‘stocking stuffer’ wedding gifts.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “One’s gonna say ‘bride’ and the other’ll say ‘groom.’ In script, which is real hard for the guy to do.”

  Lilia opened her mouth but no sound came out. He guessed that meant she didn’t think the belts were a good idea.

  “Of course, I’ll get them something silver as the real gift. I was hoping you’d help me choose.”

  She nodded. “I’d be happy to do that. Anyhow, Shannon will help with wardrobe, as I mentioned, while you and I get down to work on polite conversation, correct table manners under all sorts of circumstances and ballroom dancing. You mentioned a steeplechase, I believe? I assume you know how to ride?”

  “I was practically born in a saddle.”

  “Yes, but have you ridden English style before?”

  “Hell, no. Little velvet caps and silly britches aren’t my style. And I use a real man’s saddle.”

  “Have you ever taken fences, Dan?”

  “Taken ’em? I’ve mended fences.”

  A frown marred her smooth forehead. “You do realize that during a steeplechase you’ll be expected to jump over obstacles? Very large obstacles?”

  Dan scratched his head. “Yeah. I’ve never figured out that part. Seems dumb to me. Why not just go around ’em?”

  “It takes a very good seat and firm hands and lots of practice…”

  “I’m not too worried.”

  “Riding lessons, English saddle,” Lilia said firmly, writing it down on a monogrammed notepad.
/>   He curled his lip. “You’re not gettin’ me in those bun-hugger pansy pants or a velvet hat.”

  She waved a dismissive hand at him and continued to write. “We’ll go see Jean Pierre for some dancing lessons, and then you and I can practice every day… Oh, and we’ll need to schedule a manicure for you.”

  “Come again? Did you say ‘manicure’?”

  “Yes, Dan, I did. Your nails are ragged and your hands are in bad shape. I’m even going to suggest a paraffin wax treatment.”

  “Get outta here,” he exclaimed.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re yanking my chain, right? I’m not going to some salon for a—”

  “Yes, you are. And we’re also going to schedule you a haircut with Enrique right away. Plus I’ll set you up with some light reading—etiquette books that you’ll need to read and study every night over the next two weeks.”

  “I watch ESPN at night, and COPS, and the History channel. Bad movies. True crime shows.”

  “Not for the next fourteen days, Dan. Remember Cary Grant. Otherwise you’ll be wasting your money.”

  He groaned.

  She eyed him sympathetically. “You’re very sweet to do this for your sister, you know. You must love her very much.”

  He looked down at the scarred hands that had proudly wielded shovels, hammers and rifles. Hands that had delivered calves and foals, mended fences and steered two-ton trucks. Beer-drinking hands. For Claire, they were shortly to be defiled by a manicure. Ugh.

  “My sister was about the one bright spot in my life, growing up. And you know what’s funny? I thought I’d hate her. But I fell in love with that little girl the minute I saw her.”

  “You thought you’d hate her? May I ask why?”

  Dan sighed. “It’s complicated.”

  She nodded and he stood up. “Well, it’s been a long day, Miz Lilia. I think I’d like to go find my hotel room and take a hot shower. Enjoy my last night of television before being brainwashed by Emily Post.”

  Her lips twitched. “No such luck. I have reading material to give you right away.” And his elegant little tormentor pulled a fat three-ring binder out of a filing drawer. She handed it to him with a wry smile. “Let the brainwashing begin.”