“Really?” He shot a cool, amused glance at his great-grandmother and seated himself in the wing chair opposite the settee. A low piecrust table, its gleaming surface decorated with an arrangement of golden button mums in a crystal bowl, occupied the space between them. “She hasn’t said a word about you to me.”
“That’s because Zoe and I only just met this past Monday,” Moira informed him.
Oh, great, he thought, now she’s parading complete strangers under my nose!
“Zoe’s an entrepreneur.”
“Really?” Reed murmured, polite but not encouraging. “In what field?”
“Cosmetics,” Moira said before Zoe could answer. She gestured at the table between them. “She was just showing me a few of her wonderful products.”
Reed glanced at the table. Half-hidden behind the arrangement of mums were several small jars and bottles. At least half of them were open, perfuming the air with the faint, fresh scent of flowers and aromatic herbs. He’d noticed the fragrance when he came into the parlor, but hadn’t thought anything about it, unconsciously assuming it came from the crystal bowls of potpourri Moira always kept scattered around the house.
On the settee next to Moira were a couple of shoe boxes he hadn’t noticed before, either, and a large Betsey Johnson shopping bag on the floor between the two women’s feet. Either Miss Moon had made a stop on Newbury Street before she called on Moira, or she was carting her wares around like a well-heeled bag lady. Whichever, someone really ought to tell her how unprofessional it made her appear.
“Then Miss Moon is…what?” He arched an eyebrow, ignoring the accompanying twinge as the butterfly bandage tugged at the fine hairs. “An Avon lady?”
“No, she’s not an Avon lady. She’s an entrepreneur.” Moira stressed the word as if he might not have understood it the first time. “She doesn’t sell other people’s cosmetics. She sells her own.”
“Well, not cosmetics, exactly,” Zoe Moon demurred with a smile. “Just lotions, body oils and sachets. So far, at least.”
“They’re not just anything,” Moira objected. She plucked a slender, frosted-green-glass bottle off the table. The words New Moon were hand-lettered in elegant calligraphy across the label, superimposed over a line drawing of a pale crescent moon. “Zoe makes them herself, right in her own kitchen, using only the purest, most natural ingredients.” Moira twisted the top off of the bottle and held it across the table toward Reed. “Try this,” she ordered. “It’s the most exquisite hand lotion I’ve ever used. Makes your skin feel as soft as water.”
Zoe extended her hand and intercepted the bottle before Reed could stir himself to reach for it. “I’m sure Mr. Sullivan—” she gave him a slanting, sideways look as she said his name, both her expression and her tone letting him know she’d noticed and was…amused, he decided, by his insistence on the formality of address “—doesn’t want to go back to the office smelling like a flower garden.”
Both puzzled and just a bit disgruntled by her attitude, he watched her recap the bottle and set it on the piecrust table. As one of Boston’s wealthiest and most eligible bachelors, Reed was accustomed to a great deal of respect, even awe, from the opposite sex. Women didn’t usually laugh at him, not even silently.
“Oh, Reed won’t go back to the office from here, will you, dear?” Moira said, apparently oblivious to the byplay between her guests.
Which was decidedly odd, Reed thought. Despite her advanced age, his great-grandmother prided herself on knowing exactly what was going on at all times.
“He always heads off to rugby practice after tea.” Moira smiled in the direction of her great-grandson without actually taking her eyes off Zoe. “So I’m sure he doesn’t care what he smells like.”
Zoe Moon slanted Reed another glance, taking in the small white bandage on his eyebrow, skimming the width of his shoulders, sweeping the length of his legs beneath the worsted flannel of his navy slacks as if assessing his fitness for the sport…or something else. Only sheer strength of will kept him from squirming like an inexperienced adolescent under her frank, unabashed scrutiny. He managed to meet her gaze, when she brought it back to his, with a cool expression and an elegantly raised eyebrow, the epitome of masculine aplomb.
She didn’t even have the grace to blush at being caught checking him out so blatantly. She simply smiled and looked away, turning her attention back to her hostess.
“I don’t imagine his teammates would appreciate the scent of lavender in the middle of a…” Her gaze flickered back to Reed. “What do you call that group hug in the middle of a game?”
He scowled at the teasing note in her voice. She was definitely laughing at him! “A scrum,” he growled, all but biting off the word in irritation.
Zoe Moon didn’t seem to notice the warning edge in his tone. “A scrum. Thank you.” She nodded, smiling, and turned her gaze back on Moira.
His scowl deepened.
If she was vying to become a candidate for the position of Mrs. Reed Sullivan IV, she was sure as hell going about it the wrong way. Not that she was in the running, anyway, of course. Not that anyone was in the running. But still… Didn’t she know that bank presidents and highly placed corporate executives had been known to tremble in fear when he scowled at them?
“I don’t think his teammates would appreciate the scent of lavender in the middle of a scrum,” she said to Moira, completely oblivious to Reed’s growing annoyance. “It would interfere with the smell of fresh blood and manly sweat.”
“Well…perhaps you’re right,” Moira agreed, not seeming to notice Reed’s annoyance, either. “But, still, it’s important that he be familiar with the products, don’t you think?”
“He could look at my formulas.”
“Yes, of course. That’s a splendid idea.” Moira picked up one of the shoe boxes near her hip, removed the lid and began shuffling through the contents.
Not shoes or cosmetics, Reed noted sourly, but papers. Untidy stacks of papers, shoved every which way into the shoe box.
“Now, where are they?” Moira murmured, half to herself. “I had the one for your wonderful lotion in my hand not more than ten minutes ago.”
“Why the he—” Reed caught himself before he uttered the profanity in front of his aged relative. “Why in the world would I need to look at the formula for some hand lotion?” he asked. “I’ll look at it, of course, if you want me to,” he amended when Moira glanced up with a delicately raised eyebrow that showed their kinship more clearly than the brilliant blue of their eyes, “but why would you want—”
The parlor doors opened. “Tea, ma’am.” Eddie rolled the two-tiered cart into the room.
“Oh, wonderful.” Moira beamed at her butler. “I’m sure everyone must be as parched as I am. All this talk of business has worked up a thirst in all of us, I’m sure.”
“Business?” Reed said. Had he missed something here? “What bus—”
“Put it right there, please, Eddie.” Moira motioned to a spot in front of the Adams mantel, halfway between Zoe’s end of the settee and the wing chair where Reed sat. “You can just leave it,” she instructed when Eddie began to fiddle with the delicate cups and saucers. “We’ll serve ourselves today.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Eddie bowed himself out of the room.
Moira gestured toward the tea cart. “Zoe, dear, would you mind pouring, please? I’m afraid my wrists aren’t up to managing that heavy teapot these days.”
“Yes, of course. I’d be glad to.” Zoe shifted the tapestry bag from her lap to the floor, shrugging the enveloping shawl from her shoulders as she rose to her feet.
The