Joan Pickart - Texas Glory

“What do you mean?”

“For example, a guy on one of my construction crews just separated from his wife. Why? Because he’s an outdoors man who likes to camp, hunt, fish. His wife’s idea of a vacation is a fancy hotel, shopping and going to the theater. It may not sound like a big deal, but it’s blowing them apart now, even though they were aware of it before they were married.”

“And?” Glory said.

“Another guy I know is miserable. He loves his wife, he really does, but they’re in trouble after being married four months. When they were dating, he took her out a lot, wined and dined and courted her. Now he wants quiet evenings at home. She’s still into going out at night.”

“What’s your point, Bram?”

“I want to do this right, Glory, which means boot camp extends beyond the walls of this office. It’s one thing to talk about potential red-alert areas, it’s quite another to actually live them.”

Glory frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

“We pretend we’re married.”

“What!” she said, definitely yelling.

Bram raised both hands quickly. “Don’t stress. Hear me out. Okay?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Glory said dryly. “This is absurd.”

“It is not! I’m not saying our role-playing would include the lovemaking part of marriage. I have my principles, you know, Dr. Carson.”

Glory narrowed her eyes. “Do tell.”

“I’m trying to. We’d spend every evening together for a while, just as though we were coming together at the end of our workday like a married couple. That’s important, don’t you see? It’s not like dating...being at one’s best at all times. This would be the real goods, totally realistic.

“Glory, wouldn’t you, as a professional marriage counselor, gain valuable insight into the nitty-gritty details that rip people apart? Be able to show them how to head trouble off at the pass? Wouldn’t you have a much better handle on how to help couples than you do now just sitting behind that desk?”

“I’m an excellent counselor, Mr. Bishop.”

“Oh, hey, I believe it, but by doing this project with me you’d be even better. We’d both benefit. I’d learn how to be an appropriately behaved husband, and you’d sharpen your professional skills, which would surely increase your client list.” Bram shrugged. “Then we go our separate ways, and that’s that.”

Glory stared at Bram, her mind racing.

Yes? No? she thought. From a professional standpoint, the idea had very exciting possibilities. The hands-on experiences would be invaluable, exactly as Bram stated.

But from a personal angle? Going home to Bram Bishop at the end of each workday, having dinner, spending the evening together—that scenario shouted danger in big, bold letters. There was no denying the sensual impact Bram had on her. To place herself in such close proximity to the man night after night wasn’t wise, not at all.

But then again, what a marvelous opportunity to gather information that might very well benefit so many of her future clients.

On the other hand...

“Oh, drat,” Glory said, pressing her fingertips to her temples, “this is crazy. I’m chasing my own thoughts around in an endless circle.”

“There’s really no reason to stress,” Bram said. “This is definitely a win-win situation. We each accomplish our individual goals by doing something together. It’s very simple, Glory.”

“At the risk of sounding like an old movie,” she said, “would this every-evening togetherness be at your place or mine?”

Bram shrugged. “We’ll alternate. All we have to do is pretend we’re home, no matter whose place it is. Do you have an apartment or a house?”

“A cottage.”

Bram grinned. “With a gazebo?”

“No,” she said, matching his smile. “There’s no gazebo.”

“That’s a shame. I still say you’re the type of lady who should have a gazebo.”

“Ah, yes, and a filmy summer dress and a big hat to wear while sitting in said gazebo.”

“Hey, you remembered what I said.” Bram’s smile grew even bigger.

“Well, there aren’t that many fanciful thoughts in that particular compartment of my brain.”

Bram’s smile disappeared as he looked directly into Glory’s green eyes.

“Well, I think we’ll just have to do something about that,” he said.

“Oh, well, I...” Glory started, then stopped, having totally forgotten what she was about to say.

Those eyes, she thought. Dear heaven, those blue eyes of Bram’s were like a beautiful sea, beckoning to her to forget everything and just fling herself into their fathomless depths.

Her heart was racing, its wild tempo echoing in her ears. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. She was held in a sensuous web by Bram Bishop’s mesmerizing eyes.

A quiet buzzing noise came from a small black box attached to the side of Glory’s telephone. She tore her gaze from Bram’s, took a quick but deep breath, then cleared her throat.

“That’s the signal from Margot that our time is up,” she said, looking above Bram’s left shoulder.

Man, Bram thought, jerking himself back to reality. He’d lost track of where he was as he’d stared into Glory’s emerald eyes. The heat low in his body was coiled, so hot, twisting.

This woman was tying him in knots, and he had a feeling she wasn’t even aware of the effect she had on him—and probably on a whole helluva lot of other men who crossed her path.

There was an innocent aura surrounding Glory, as though her womanliness was asleep, her compelling femininity slumbering, not known even to herself.

She was strictly business in her tailored clothes and severe hairstyle. Her smiles were rare commodities, not easily given.

He’d dubbed her Sleeping Beauty when he’d first seen her on the airplane. That name was more appropriate than he’d even realized at the time.

“Bram?” Glory said.

“What? Oh.” He got to his feet. “Right. Listen, we need to talk more about this idea of mine. Why don’t we go out for a hamburger tonight and discuss the plan?”

“No, I don’t think—”

“Come on, Glory. There’s a lot of potential to this proposal. You said yourself you’re trying to build up your practice. It won’t cost you anything to discuss it further over a hamburger. Seven o’clock?”

Glory sighed. “Yes, all right.”

“Great. What’s your address. I’ll pick you up.”

Glory wrote the information on a slip of paper and extended it toward Bram.

“Better include your telephone number,” he said. “You know, in case I get a flat tire on the way, or whatever, and I’m delayed.”

Glory added the number and Bram took the paper.

Smooth, Bishop, he told himself. Very smooth.

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