Amy Fetzer - Awakening Beauty

He laughed.

“What do you want, Mr. McKay?”

“First, for you to call me Tyler.”

“Will that make you go away?”

“Can’t bet on it. I’m calling to ask if you’ll help with some community service.”

“And what service might that be?”

“The children’s pageant.”

“Oh, no.” Lane shook her head as if he could see her. “I’ve never worked with children. Besides, I have no talent to contribute.”

“Come on, you can swing a hammer.”

“You mean at an actual nail?”

He laughed softly, it was an intimate sound, and for a second she wondered if he was in bed. “I love it when you talk tools.”

“You’re pathetic.” But the smile she wore was starting to hurt.

“What are you wearing?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you wear those ugly boots in your house?”

“No, they’re sitting on the back steps standing guard against the fashion police. They’re outlaws, you know.”

His chuckle melted through her blood, and she curled more deeply into the chair.

“Let me guess—you’re wearing flannel up to your throat.”

Lane looked down at the satin chemise and matching blood-red robe. “Yes, with little flowers on it and a pink bow. And they’re footie pajamas too. Now the point of this conversation is…?”

“Curiosity.”

“It killed the cat.” Ramses whined at her feet. “Sorry.”

“Are you talking to me?”

“No, to my cat, Ramses.”

“Why Ramses?”

“Because the Pharaohs worshipped cats and they have never let us forget it.”

His laughter was a quick short burst that made her smile.

“A woman with cats and flannel living alone has potential for a lonely life, Lane.”

“I guess I’m doomed, then. Should I break out the doilies?”

He chuckled again and Lane felt the sound coat her. “Not quite yet.”

“Why do you care?” she asked.

“You’re too sexy to be locked away.”

She blinked, looking down at her cat and mouthing “Sexy?” Only Tyler McKay would think combat boots and long drab skirts were meant to entice a man when they were meant to play down her looks and hide her identity.

“Do you need glasses?”

“I see fine…and I like what I see.”

She felt herself flush with excitement. “Good night.”

“No, it’s good night, Tyler,” he said patiently. “Say it. It won’t make you go up in flames.”

Feeling playful, she said in her sexiest throaty voice, “Good night, Tyler,” then hung up.

Torture goes both ways, she thought, and knew that would probably get her into the very trouble she was trying to avoid. Just the same, her insides were tickled, and she realized he was on some quest to learn more about her. While she was flattered beyond belief, she couldn’t let him that close.

If anyone learned who she really was, her neat little life would be over.

Lane glanced up as a customer came through the door. She recognized the designer suit—the Italian-milled fabric, the exceptional fit—before the woman in her recognized the man wearing it.

Okay, she was impressed, and she had to swallow to keep her jaw from dropping to the counter. Tyler McKay could have been one of her runway models at her design shows, he looked that good. A thought she was definitely keeping to herself.

“Is this proof you work for a living, or are you playing dress-up?” she said, gesturing at the suit. His crisp white shirt, she could tell, was an exquisite silk-and-cotton blend, and her fingers almost itched to inspect the seams and facings.

“I’m between appointments.”

He stopped at the counter, and Lane remembered the sound of his voice late last night. Soft and deep, wrapping around her and dragging her down. After the call, she couldn’t even concentrate on her book.

“What are you doing here again?”

“I brought your car.” He pointed out the window at the black vehicle sitting at the curb.

“That’s not my car, Mr. McKay.”

“I know. Yours was nearly an antique, and it’ll take a while to get parts. This is a loaner.”

It was black SUV. One of the smaller models and it looked brand-new.

“My insurance offers a loaner.”

“So does mine,” he said. “That’s it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Look, I’m at fault. My insurance pays.”

“That’s a McKay Enterprises car. I’ve seen them.”

“It might look like one, but it’s not.” He studied her for a second longer than she wanted. “You’re spoiling for an argument, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Can’t you tell by my tone?”

“If I knew you better…”

She gave him a thin look that said it wasn’t going to happen.

“Okay, stay a stranger, but you still need a car.” He dangled the keys.

“I have one and as soon as it’s repaired, I’ll—”

“—still have a piece of junk.”

Her chin tipped up, her lips twitching. “I like to think I’ve been driving cars with character.”

“That one was a bad seed, trust me. It’s time you made better friends.”

Her pride reared. “Do you dictate to everyone or just me?”

“If I thought I could, I’d try harder to get you to join the festival.”

Another thin look. “Don’t get off the subject,” she warned. “I don’t need your car or your money, McKay. I don’t want it, in fact.”

Tyler grinned. Big. And Lane felt her heart skip all the way to her throat and shiver with pleasure for a couple seconds. It made her light-headed. When was the last time she met anyone who smiled so much? Who was just plain happy with life?

Oh, gee, said a voice in her head. Doesn’t the fact that he’s worth millions have something to do with that? He didn’t have much to worry about, did he?

Money made people strange. But from her experience, it didn’t generate an attitude like his. Which she was still trying to figure out. Why was he flirting with her? Or was he just testing his charm on the homely girl? In her present lackluster state of dress, hair and makeup, she knew she wasn’t attractive. It was intentional. A goal to blend into the woodwork and not be noticed. The less recognizable she was, the better.

She’d been a designer with her own couture showrooms in Paris and Milan. She knew what clothing flattered, what hid, what exposed. Now she chose not to expose anything, using the wrong colors and styles, and wearing her normally short hair longer and whipped tight to her head. She wore glasses because she needed them, and she had a darling trendy pair upstairs in her apartment. Yet when she was in public, she wore round, plain, tortoiseshell glasses. They were too large for her face and the color of her eyes. Another good shield to hide behind.

“I’ve come to ask for community service again.”

“My store is my community service.”

“But the children,” he said, pouring a little whine into his voice.

Inside, she was cracking up over this guy. He made her want to smile, but he’d take the smile as encouragement. “That’s unfair.”

He shrugged. “I use what I can.”

“The last time I was with a child, I was one. Besides, the kids have parents to volunteer. PTA, bake sales. I really have nothing to offer.” It was sad but true. A couture designer wouldn’t be much good in a pie-baking contest.

The bell over the door tinkled and a woman stepped inside. She paused at the entrance, which was the foyer of the old house, and looked around. Inspecting a bit, Lane decided. She was slim and petite, her silver hair cut to perfection in a sleek bob. Her clothes, the next thing Lane focused on, were classic. Camel cashmere slacks and a navy blouse with a camel wool jacket. She’d draped a printed scarf over her shoulder and across her chest, secured with a small glittering pin. Elegant, Lane thought as the woman moved forward.