yet powerful build. He finished the drinks and offered her one—a Manhattan. Automatically she reached out and took it from him. As she did so, her fingers brushed his. That accidental touch evoked a flicker of warmth inside her, like the quick flare of an ember before it died. Kim had to remind herself that she’d lost the talent for appreciating a good—looking man. That wasn’t going to change just because Michael Turner had moved in next door.
She held her drink without sipping it and examined the well—stocked bar—gin, scotch, sherry, tonic water, even a jar of stuffed olives.
“How very thoughtful of my mother-in-law,” she said. “She’s supplied you with everything. What did you do to get her approval?”
Michael was impassive. “Can’t say, but I refused to flatter her. Perhaps that did the trick.”
Kim shook her head. “I never flatter her and it gets me nowhere. Must be something else.” She paused. “Are you a friend of Sophie’s?”
Michael appeared to think this over. “Would it matter?” he asked as he sipped his drink.
“Sophie is particular about her tenants. She won’t rent to just anyone. Either you’d have to be her friend or come with damn good references.” Suddenly restless, Kim wandered to a window and gazed out at the courtyard, where a native garden flourished—asters, poppies, devil’s claw. But she couldn’t delay any longer.
“Mr. Turner,” she said, facing him, “let me get to the point. The reason I’m here is that…well, I need a date. For tomorrow night.” How ludicrous the words sounded once they were out. Michael looked slightly surprised at first, then intrigued. My, he did have an expressive face. She also saw that glimmer of amusement in his eyes again.
“No doubt you’re thinking it’s a very peculiar request,” she said stiffly. “I don’t even know you. I mean, I only met you this morning. Of course it seems peculiar.” She took a sip of her drink. It was inescapable: she really was making a colossal fool of herself.
“Have a seat,” he said in a solemn voice. “I’m all ears.”
She went to the sofa, sat down, then realized that wasn’t going to help at all. She stood up again.
“I need a date for a business function,” she said defensively. “Very well, a family function, too. The Bennetts always mix business and family. It’s a volatile combination, but I suppose that’s beside the point.”
Michael continued to look both interested and quietly amused. He sat down in an armchair across from her, appearing completely at ease. To remain standing would only put Kim at a disadvantage. She perched on the edge of the sofa again.
“Perhaps ‘ate’ is the wrong word,” she said. “What I need is…an escort.” That sounded even worse, and she hurried on, “It’s a tradition, in a way. At these Bennett affairs, you never show up alone. You gather your forces, so to speak. But you’re probably wondering why I don’t ask someone else. Some male friend. Nonetheless. I thought of you. I mean, you don’t seem the sort to be eyebrowed under the couch by a roomful of pompous, insufferable Bennetts. That was the deciding factor.”
Michael inclined his head. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I suppose. So I’m your last—ditch choice?”
She gazed back at him as resolutely as possible. “It’s just that…after eight years of marriage, I find I don’t have a whole lot of male friends.” Oh, Lord. As long as she was confessing humiliating details, why not to ahead and tell Michael Turner what a miserable travesty her marriage had been? Why spare herself? “Anyway,” she continued more forcefully, “the Bennetts thrive on despising each other—and everyone else. Family get—togethers aren’t exactly restful.”
He swirled his drink reflectively. “Sounds like this thing could be entertaining.”
Kim wondered if his answer qualified as a yes or a no. Either way, she’d disgraced herself enough for one evening. She set down her drink and rose from the sofa.
“I’ll understand if you want to pass. It’s very short notice, and it’s true that I hardly know you, and—”
“Tux?” he asked.
She frowned at him.
“Tux,” he repeated. “Do you want me in a tux?”
Kim felt an idiotic sense of relief. “Nothing quite so formal,” she said. “The Bennetts pretend to be casual. Mr. Turner—”
“If I’m going to be your date,” he interjected seriously, “don’t you think you’d better start calling me something else? Something less. formal.”
After a second or two she tried his name. “Michael.” It had an intimate sound to it, and she wished she could go back to calling him Mr. Turner. But unfortunately he was right. If they were going to get through tomorrow evening with any aplomb, Michael it would have to be. “Eight o’clock,” she said briskly. “And if you need a baby—sitter for Andy, I know someone.”
“It’s a good thing Andy didn’t hear you say that. He hates that word—baby—sitter. He’s much too old for baby—sitters. But I have a friend he can stay with.”
“Well. Then it’s settled.” There didn’t seem any more to say. Except one thing perhaps. “Thank you for doing this. I know the whole thing’s rather awkward and silly, but—”
“Kim,” he said. “Quit while you’re ahead.”
She gazed into his brown eyes just a trifle too long. But at least now she had the sense to keep her mouth shut. She left his house without saying another word.
THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Kim stared disgustedly at the contents of her dressing room. When you were a widow of only a few months, how did you dress for adate that wasn’t a date? She wondered if any of the etiquette books covered this particular situation.
There’d been a time when she had actually accumulated etiquette manuals with naive enthusiasm. She’d been newly wed, overawed that she’d married into the wealthy Bennett clan. She’d wanted so much to make Stan proud of her—to make the whole family proud. That was before she’d really come to know Sophie or the rest of the Bennetts. Her etiquette books had been gathering dust for quite some time now.
But it was seven-forty-five, and Kim still hadn’t decided what she was going to wear for this evening’s ordeal. She stood in the dressing room—all mirrors and strategic lighting designed to soften any reflection—and sorted through the gowns hanging against one wall. There were so many of them, in silk, tulle, velvet, brocade. All that entertaining in the past had required an extensive wardrobe. But these days Kim had given up entertaining—or being entertained. If she was showing up at the family enclave tonight, it was strictly as a stockholder in Bennett Industries. She’d do what was required, nothing more—on the arm of Michael Turner of course.
Kim rejected one dress after another. Too elegant, too fussy, too frivolous. Part of her heartily regretted that she’d ever gone over to Michael’s house. The other part was grateful that he’d accepted her invitation. She scorned herself for being a coward, but she wasn’t up to facing the Bennetts on her own. Not tonight, anyway.
Seven-fifty-two. She had all the clothes in the world and couldn’t decide what to wear. At last Kim pulled a black dress from its hanger. She slipped into it and observed herself in the overabundance of mirrors. A low scooped neckline and slinky fit in satin and lace—widow’s weeds with a vengeance. But it was too late to try anything else. Feeling out of sorts, Kim slid on a pearl bracelet, brushed her hair one more time and picked up her black pumps. She carried them with her as she started down the thickly carpeted stairs. But shouldn’t she be wearing perfume?
She retraced her steps and examined the selection on top of her dressing table. Here was every fragrance a woman could desire, yet once again she couldn’t choose. She knew that whichever bottle she opened, it would remind her of Stan. Suddenly the very thought of perfume