<< Go Back

Romance By Design

By Gail Gaymer Martin

Order Now!

One

“Chandler, how did you get me into this?”
Hunter Evans grimaced, hearing the hoedown music long before he arrived. The thrumming racket barreled down the wide hallway as he headed for Harrison Interior’s Grand Arena. Though he enjoyed a good, classical violinist, tonight the electric violin sent its strident caterwauling scratching through the air—horsehair sawing catgut—which was about the way he felt tonight.
After a seven hour flight from London and arriving at his desk the next morning, he faced Chandler’s fund-raiser memo. “All employees are required to participate in the charity hoedown.”
Hoedown? He’d cringed. Whose harebrained idea had that been? He studied the memo and found the answer. Morgan Branigan, a new employee. That’s all he needed. More competition from a new interior designer with a goodwill bent. He’d struggled too long and hard the past years to lose his position now when he’d finally reached the top.
The memo faded from his mind, but not the pandemonium as he reached the arena doorway. He winced at his feeble attempt to escape this evening’s madhouse. He’d thought Chandler owed him one for his success in London, but all he got in return was, “Oh, come now, Hunter. Be a sport. We need everyone’s full support. It’s invaluable for public relations. Anyway, I’m anxious for you to meet Morgan.”
Morgan. He shook his head. Morgan, the new competition, a back-woods designer . . . while he was a real designer, not a foot-stomping yokel. This was Boston, not Skunk Hollow.
Still, he could beat Chandler at this own game. The man could make him attend, but, like leading a horse to water, Chandler couldn’t make him drink, nor could he make him wear a cowboy shirt. He would rather be strung up on a tree.
As he stepped through the large doorway, he gaped at the crowd, business associates dressed in jeans and tight satin shirts with stitched yokes, their heads covered with Stetsons, straw planters, or ten-gallon hats, and their tooled-leather boots. Women twirled past in full skirts that looked like farmhouse curtains—ruffles and bows—and boots. They’d all gone boot-crazy.
Dressed in a pair of Dockers and a cashmere sweater, he straggled on the sidelines, gawking at the phenomenon. Hay wagons piled with straw stood against each wall. Two flatbed wagons offered a spread of hors d’oeuvres and two chuck wagons served liquid refreshments. Watching the dancers with faces beaming, sweat rolling from hairlines, cheeks glowing with exertion, he shook his head.
“What’s up, pardner?” A hand grabbed his arm. “Why aren’t you out there kickin’ up yer heels?”
Hunter swung around and stared at a creamy-skinned, freckle-faced woman crowned by a mass of long red curls. Her green eyes glinted with mischief.
“We’ll have no gloomy looks around here, you know. Let’s shake a leg.” The stunning woman twirled her petite body toward the dance floor, her white ruffled blouse high around her neck, and a blue gingham skirt billowing around her slender legs. She reached back and grabbed his arm, but halted and gawked. “Oh my. Look what I’ve done.”
He tore his gaze from her green eyes to his expensive cashmere sweater. Her tinkling, charm-filled bracelet had snagged the soft wool. The bracelet and his sweater were bound by a thread—a very expensive thread.
Peering at his shoulder, he attempted to unhook the snag while she manipulated the strand caught on a miniature sewing machine. Her slender fingers looked fragile next to his larger ones. The charm bracelet jangled as they manipulated the hook and verged on snagging another thread with a minuscule fork charm.
Brilliant. He watched her struggle to unloosen herself. She seemed a battlefield of household weaponry while he worked to extricate her charm bracelet from his shoulder.
With one final twist, the woman beamed with a triumphant sigh. “There, it’s unhooked. And no damage.” She gave his sleeve a pat, then eyed the spot with more care. “Well, the snag is so small no one will ever see it.”
When she patted his sweater again, he jerked away, fearing to get wounded by her dangerous wrist. “Sorry. Instinct. I don’t want you hooked to me permanently.” But as he eyed her warm smile, the possibility didn’t seem totally bad—except for the bracelet.
“I’ll be careful. Now, what about that dance? And I won’t take no for an answer.” Her eyes sparkled, and she clapped her hands in time to the music. Again she snatched his shoulder, this time with the other hand, and drew him onto the dance floor. “I’m sure you know the Texas Two-Step.”
He looked at her dumbfounded. He’d never learned the Texas One-Step, so what made her think he’d make it through a Two-Step? But before he could refuse, she’d latch onto him, romping among the western getups with his crepe-soled loafers hugging the floor while he tried not to fall over himself.
Mortified, he nodded to co-workers and clients, grinning halfheartedly at their thumbs up as he barreled across the floor tangled in the bewitching throes of the red-haired Pollyanna. The foot routine might have been simpler if his shoes had cooperated.
The hard strumming tune slowed into a smooth country love song, and he breathed an audible sigh. At least this tempo was tolerable and easier on the ear. Hunter moved to guide his grinning partner off the floor, but instead, she turned and slipped into his arms, gliding him into the rhythmic sway of the new tune.
Hunter’s first response was to carry her off, kicking if necessary. But her sweet gaze influenced him, and he relented. Wrapped in his arms, he studied her face, a peachy complexion with a smattering of brown freckles, her green eyes like dark peridot, her full, rosy lips.
“You should be out here more often.” The woman’s rich voice lilted like the love song. “You’re a good dancer.” She gave him an approving nod. “I didn’t notice you earlier this evening. I’d guess you just arrived.”
“Yes. I’d tried escaping the shindig altogether.”
Her eyes glinted, ignoring his comment. “And before anyone else saw you, I was the one to snag you first.” She chuckled. “Literally, I’m afraid.”
Her comment forced him to glance at his “only a little” damaged sweater. “Don’t worry about it. I have to admit I’m not in a party mood.”
“Really?” A hint of sarcasm oozed from her tone.
“It’s been a long day. I’m recovering from jet lag.”
The young woman tilted her head while a generous smile spread across her face. “But you are enjoying yourself?”
No, I’d rather eat dirt. He buried that comment deep inside. She was a nice lady, and he owed her something more civil. “Meeting you has been pleasant.”
Her smile brightened. “Why, thank you.”
She amazed him. His first impression had been correct. The Pollyanna title really fit. She added a rosy thought to everything.
He twirled her around the floor as best he could maneuver with his no-budge shoes. The music ended, and turning away from the bandstand, he guided her off the floor, almost wishing he’d met her at a different place and a different time. It had been a long time since he’d held a woman that close, and she felt good in his arms. And far different from his old flame, Anica.
When they came to the sidelines, she narrowed her eyes, and gazed at him. “For some reason, I feel you’re unhappy about Mr. Harrison’s charity efforts.”
Her perception amazed him. “I’m shocked Chandler fell for the idea. CHI is a design firm, not a nonprofit organization.”
Color rose in her cheeks, and her wide-eyed gaze fixed on him. “Mr. Harrison seems to like the idea. He thinks it’s good for public relations.”
He held back a sneer pulling at his lips. “Yes, I read that in his memo. Apparently he’s getting a bit soft-hearted.” Her confused look caught him off-guard, and he paused, realizing she didn’t know he worked for CHI. “Sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Hunter Evans with CHI.”
Before she could respond, a hand clasped his shoulder, and he swung around to face Barrett Gorman. “Welcome home, pal. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you earlier.” He nodded toward Hunter’s red-haired partner. “I see you two have met.”
Before Hunter could respond, Barrett added, “So what do you think of Chandler’s new strategy here?”
Hunter gave a sidelong glance toward the stranger and leaned toward Barrett, hoping to keep his comment private. “I suspect Mr. Branigan is polishing the apple.” His wisdom had taken a coffee break, and he tossed off the next comment without thought. “I can’t believe he’s hired a new designer who thinks giving away his money is a good idea.”
Barrett frowned.
“Hey man, I’m overtired.”
“And you’ve lost your tact.” He tilted his head toward the woman as his frown deepened. “I’ll see you later.”
As he strode away, Hunter stared after him, wondering what he’d meant. He shrugged and turned back to the woman lingering at his side. “Sorry for the interruption. I didn’t catch your name.” The redhead faced him squarely, displaying a broad smile of even white teeth. She stuck her hand toward his. “I’m the new CHI designer, Morgan Branigan. It was nice to meet you.”
Branigan. Blazing humiliation burned his face. He found no words and knew his forced smile looked like the French gargoyle, Misery.
With an arched eyebrow, Morgan turned away and sashayed across the room.
* * *
Morgan held her laughter until she crossed the dance floor, and then it burst from her as she pictured his confused, even shocked expression. Subtlety was not Hunter Evans’ forte. She’d found his misconception amusing, thinking Morgan Branigan was a man. Obviously, he knew nothing about good old Irish names.
Morgan ordered a tall glass of water with lemon from the chuck wagon bartender, and when he handed it to her, she gulped down the cold liquid. Country dancing made her as dry as tumbleweed.
She surveyed the crowd. The evening was an obvious success. Most everyone had dressed for the occasion with the exception of Hunter. He didn’t seem at all cooperative, but immediately contrition struck her. He’d hardly had time to run out and buy the appropriate wardrobe for a hoedown if he’d returned to the office only today.
From across the room, she studied him, talking to a gentleman dressed in full western regalia. She let her imagination soar, envisioning Hunter in a tight silky western shirt with an appliqué design scrolled across his broad chest. Watching him a moment, she concluded he looked great just the way he was.
His chocolate brown hair lay thick and full on top, cut short around the ears in the typical young executive style. Like dark mahogany, his brooding eyes watched the dancers. A deep cleft graced his chin, and his unsmiling mouth bore full sumptuous lips. Classically handsome, she’d call him, right out of the pages of some glossy fashion magazine.
As ridiculous as their meeting seemed, Morgan wished they’d met under more agreeable circumstances. His comment about her seemed blatantly clear. He considered her an apple-polisher—a male one at that. Yet gazing at him, the sensations coursing through her left no doubt she was total woman.
Harnessing her thoughts, she pushed Hunter from her mind. Tonight she wanted to make a good impression on Chandler Harrison and the firm’s clients. Interior designers earned their points from satisfied customers by word of mouth. At Chandler Harrison Interiors, she would break ground as a country and period designer.
In the long run, Chandler’s needs and hers were the same—making a name in the business. Chandler counted on her to open the door for a flood of new clientele, clients wanting a prestigious firm and a line other than contemporary decor. He’d placed his trust in her. She was the company’s new man—or “bootlicking cowboy,” in the words of Hunter Evans.
“Morgan.” Chandler’s booming voice startled her, and she turned toward his greeting, planting a bright smile on her face.
“Everything’s going well?” She gave him an apprehensive glance, but his broad grin comforted her.
“Outstanding. You’re to be complimented.” His hand fell on her arm with a solid squeeze. “We reward good work here, Morgan.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harrison.”
“And what’s this ‘Mr. Harrison?’ Chandler. We’re not formal here.”
“Thank you . . . Chandler.” She grinned into his large, red face. He gave her arm another squeeze and moved off across the room.
We reward good work. The comment made her smile. But rewards weren’t success. Success was what Morgan wanted—satisfaction, pride and a sense of purpose. Success had a different meaning in her father’s mind. A wonderful Irishman with old world beliefs, Duncan Branigan believed men had careers. Women had babies. With a strong, loving hand, he had guided her into a home economics teaching career. That way, her education wouldn’t go to waste. On her own, like a sneaky child, she’d studied interior design.
But despite their differences, Morgan loved her dad. He’d taught her the joy of giving, and while she made a name for herself in her “dream” career, she could still be charitable through Chandler’s philanthropic programs. “Giving” brought her joy. Looking at the brooding Hunter Evans, she wondered what would put a smile on his face.
***
Monday morning, Hunter propped his elbows on his desk and massaged his throbbing temples. His head had ached since Friday night’s fiasco, and the memory rose in his thoughts as nauseating as road-kill. He’d made a fool of himself. And today, he had to face Chandler and his new brainchild Morgan Branigan.
Turning to face the Boston skyline, he leaned back against his black leather chair. His gaze traveled the length of his low teak credenza stretching beneath the window. Streamlined, calming familiarity. Up to now, he’d been Chandler’s golden boy, producing a myriad of successful contracts over the years including the last project he’d negotiated and guided during his stay in England. Now where did he stand?
“What was biting you Friday night?”
He spun around at the voice and whacked his knee against his streamlined, teak desk with such gusto the jolt toppled the reproduction of a Yung Chen covered jar. His hand jutted forward, grabbing the expensive pottery before it hit the floor. The lid, adorned with a Buddhistic Lion, teetered on the rim, then finally settled into place.
Resituating the expensive jar, he let out a blast of air. “Good thing I still play tennis. You never know when you need solid hand-eye coordination.”
Barrett eyed him from the doorway. “True, but that doesn’t answer my question. What was wrong with you Friday? I’ve never seen you so tactless.”
“Tactless? There are too many ‘wannabees,’ scrambling for the top, Barrett. You and I have worked long and hard to be elite designers. And I, for one, like the view from the top.” He eyed his friend and knew he still hadn’t answered Barrett’s question. “Anyway, how did I know Morgan Branigan was a woman?”
“Well, that was your first mistake.” Barrett slid into the chair across from his desk.
“What do you mean ‘first’ mistake?”
“Chandler’s been glowing since he hired this woman. He gave a pitch at last Monday’s meeting about opening new doors, building more clientele, revitalizing the firm. Don’t get on his wrong side, Hunter.”
“I know.” Heat of mortification raced from beneath his collar. “And I thought Chandler owed me one.”
“Huh?”
“I tried to wiggle out of the thing.”
“Apparently, you lost the battle.”
“Apparently. My strategy bounced off the wall like a stray tennis ball.” Lowering his gaze to the desk, Hunter faltered as he focused on Chandler’s memo. In disbelief, he snatched the memo from the pile of papers. “What is this?”
“What is what?”
“All our upcoming charity events?” His voice edged toward lunacy. “What in the world does that mean?” Yet he feared he understood. Chandler liked the ideas. Next he’d like her designs better than his and there goes his career.
Barrett fell back against the leather chair, his shoulders bouncing with each chuckle. “You sound like a raving idiot, Hunter. Friday night was only CHI’s first benevolent enterprise.”
“I see that.” He peered at the memo and scanned the sheet, catching unrelated words—hoedown, Christmas tree, golf outing. “I see our idea-generator, Morgan Branigan, has been hard at work. And this line’s my favorite: All employees are required to participate in these ventures as we reach out with compassion and support to the community.”
Hunter caved against the chair and stretched the cords in his knotted neck. He’d become too much like his father, taking his anger out on those closest to him, like Barrett. Never did he want to be like Jason Evans. He stifled his discomfort and lifted his eyes. “Sorry, Barrett, but I can’t believe that in two months this woman walked into a prestigious firm and turned it into a charity organization.” His real concern struck him harder. “Barrett do you see what’s happening? She’s got him under her spell?”
Barrett gave him a look he couldn’t read. “What? That look means something.”
“Talking about spells, I think she’s captured you in more than a spell.”
“You’re mad, Barrett. I care about our positions. With her jangling around with that bracelet, what happens to my career?” He’d been at the top and— “And yours too, Barrett.”
Barrett rose and shrugged. “We’re still good designers, Hunter, and face it, she has captivated Chandler with her eyes, both charitable and design. I suggest you deal with it, and take a good look at how she’s under your skin, Hunter. You’re worse off than when Anica had you captured in her spell.”
Before he could respond, Barrett tromped through the doorway while Hunter’s argument faded like a cheap battery Still, Barrett was wrong. Sure, Morgan clung in his mind, but not like Anica. She was gorgeous and sensual. Morgan came across as a spring day, all sunshine and flowers, rabbits hopping through the grass, butterflies fluttering…
He choked on the last word. Spring, rabbits and butterflies. What had happened to his common sense?
 

Order Now!

<< Go Back