Makin' Whoopee Page 5

  "I know what it was about, but I don't think you do. Shall I tell you, Sara Love?"

  She didn't answer. She couldn't. She closed her eyes, then heard him get out of his chair. He was walking toward her. Jumping to her feet, she blurted out, "This is what I was afraid would happen, why I was determined not to let you ever find out. And it blows everything, dammit. How can we work together with this between us?"

  He stopped abruptly as silence fell like a stray brick. "You mean you would dissolve the partnership?" he asked slowly.

  Wearily she rubbed the back of her neck. "I don't want to do that, Charlie. But if we can't forget this ever happened we may have to."

  The pause was only a heartbeat long. "Hey, no problem. It's forgotten already," he said brightly. "Buddies firm and true, just like before. Okay?"

  Nodding, she turned her back on his crooked grin and left the lounge. No problem. He could forget just like that. When was she going to learn that nothing bothered Charlie for long? He was only for fun.

  Chapter 4

  Sara lay in the dark bedroom, staring up at the ceiling, her body stiff. For two years she had been anticipating what had just taken place in the lounge. And for two years she had told herself if it ever happened she would be able to handle it. She should have known better. From the moment she had first set eyes on Charlie, she should have known better.

  On that night, over two years ago, she had been sitting at a narrow desk in a classroom. She was staring at the huge red ears of the man in front of her and holding herself separate from the buzz of students' voices as she fought nervousness. The thought of starting over in a new career was frightening and exhilarating at the same time. She was a trained legal secretary, but now she wanted more. She needed something more challenging, a career that would force her to use her own drive and cunning.

  As she sat wrapped up in her own thoughts, everyone abruptly stopped talking. Assuming the instructor had finally arrived, Sara glanced across the room . . . and there was Charlie, standing out like a Christmas tree in a forest of ordinary pines.

  His blond hair was too raggedly curly to be artificially produced, his face too interesting to be handsome. The sleeves of his turquoise T-shirt had been cut away, and only frayed edges remained, exposing tanned, muscular arms. One of those arms was clasped tightly by the pink-tipped fingers of a tall, elegant redhead.

  But it wasn't the clinging female or the man's hard, well-built body that held Sara's gaze. It was his eyes. They were robin's-egg blue, and as soon as they met hers, bits of sapphire flame sparked in them. He didn't look away from her as he said goodbye to his friend. He walked toward her, smiling a peculiar, lopsided smile that she would come to know so well in the days ahead.

  He stopped at the desk directly behind hers. "Pardon me," he said to the girl sitting there. "I'm afraid I have a little problem. Have you ever heard of quadraterciaphobia? I don't like to talk about it, but if I don't sit in the fourth seat of the third row, I start singing French nursery rhymes." He shook his head sadly. "It can get ugly."

  Sara bit her lip to keep from laughing, but the girl behind her giggled openly, obviously skeptical of his story but just as obviously charmed by him.

  As soon as he was seated, he tapped Sara on the shoulder. "My name is Charlie Sanderson, and I think I love you."

  Her lips twitched, but she didn't turn around. "My name is Sara Love, and I don't think you were ready to leave the institution quite yet."

  "Sara Love," he said slowly, as though savoring the words. "It's perfect. You're perfect."

  The room quietened again as the instructor walked in. He was a middle-aged man, short, cute, and vigorous. "My name is Miller," he said, "and I'm your instructor for the Principles of Real Estate." He turned to the blackboard as he spoke, and wrote Miller in tall, spindly letters.

  Charlie leaned forward and whispered, "So that's how you spell Miller. I knew this class would pay off."

  Sara tightened her quivering lips and tried to concentrate on what, the instructor was telling them about the course.

  "We'll be going into real-estate law a little," Mr. Miller said, "but you'll need the full course before you're through. This will give you a taste of all the different aspects of real estate."

  Charlie leaned forward again and whispered, "Speaking of law—did you know that in the state of Montana it's illegal to look like Don Knotts?"

  Sara almost choked as she turned her spurt of laughter into a cough. It was but an indication of things to come. For the next hour Charlie made irreverent comments to her, and sometimes to the class at large, not enough to disrupt the lesson, but just enough to keep enthusiasm high. Although soberness was evidently not his forte, his comments and questions were highly intelligent.

  When the class ended, Sara didn't even have a chance to gather her thoughts before she was being ushered into the cafeteria to have coffee with him. A little dazed, she sat and listened as he talked about his job and his family and himself.

  "I'm thirty-one—exactly right for you," he said without blinking. "I've worked for my father's firm—you've heard of Sanderson Smelting?—in the bookkeeping department for five years." He sighed heavily, trying to look pathetic. "My father doesn't understand me."

  "I can't say that I blame him," Sara said wryly.

  He grinned. "Me either. But I did try to fit his idea of what a son should be ... for a while. Rules kept getting in my way. Do you know what it's like to sit in a tiny little office with nothing but numbers for company, all day, every day?" He shook his head. "I was having people-withdrawal symptoms. It was really sad. I started listening for footsteps outside the door, and when anyone would walk by I would grab him by the throat, pull him into my office, and make him talk to me." He shrugged in bewilderment. "For some reason I started making the other employees nervous."

  She laughed, her eyes crinkling with enjoyment. He was a true original, something rare in a world of copies.

  "And so," he continued, "I decided I needed to do something that brought me legitimately in touch with people. It was either real estate or used cars." He fell silent, studying her face. "And why have you sought the benefits of this nocturnal mill of knowledge?"

  She smiled, glancing down at her coffee cup. "I'm a legal secretary. Do you know what that means?"

  "It means you spend a lot of time making coffee and sitting on the boss's lap and gossiping at the water cooler?" he guessed, his face carefully blank.

  She drew in a swift breath, then shook her head and laughed. "I know you're kidding, but that's about all the credit I get. Technically I'm supposed to type and file and take dictation, but my boss believes in delegating. I work my butt off on every case that comes into that office. Ninety percent of the time I'm doing what he and the paralegals are supposed to take care of."

  "You must be pretty sharp if your boss trusts you to handle the work of lawyers and paralegals," he said, staring at her in admiration.

  "Me?" she asked in surprise. "No, really I'm not. I'm just the only one there to do it. If he didn't have me, he would probably find a willing office boy or window washer to do his work." She took a sip of coffee. "In fact, he would probably give a window washer an occasional raise for the extra work— which is why I'm looking into a new career."

  "But why real estate?" he asked with genuine interest. "Why don't you go for a law degree?"

  "Because I would make a terrible lawyer," she said frankly. "I get too involved."

  "That would certainly be different. How did you hit on real estate?"

  She set down her coffee cup. "I recently bought an

  old Victorian house just outside town. The broker who sold it to me loved to talk about her work, and as I listened to her complain about what a pain the older houses were, I suddenly knew real estate was where I belonged."

  "How do you figure that?"

  "Because of my passion for old houses. The idea of working with them every day, finding people like myself to live in them ..." She shrugged. "It wa
s just too right. At least I had to give it a try." She leaned forward, excitement shining in her sable-brown eyes. "I want to deal specifically with old houses. No, not just old—really beautiful pieces of architecture."

  "You mean those things with ten-foot-high ceilings that never heat properly? They always have mouse-gray carpets, and furniture that you're afraid to sit on."

  She glared indignantly. "I suppose you like the ones that have shiny red miniature swimming pools for bathtubs and skinny blinds that match the carpet and the paintings."

  He nodded seriously. "And kitchens that have every modern convenience crammed into two square feet."

  She drew in a deep breath, then eyed him suspicously. "You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

  "A little," he admitted, his eyes laughing. "You're very teasable. But as a matter of fact, I like older homes. I like the modern ones too."

  "How wishy-washy. Don't you have a preference?"

  He shrugged. "I take each house individually and let it talk to me. Old or new, if it's a warm, loving house, it'll tell me so."

  She stared at him for a moment in bewilderment. "Your father's right. You're weird."

  He laughed outright this time. "Maybe so, but I think anything different is a plus in this business. I'll never wear a gold jacket or speak in real-estate-ese. I figure enthusiasm will take you a long way in any business."

  "You're right," she said, laughing with him. "I can't wait to get started. My stint in the law office won't hurt either. I intend to have an office in the back of my home. That way, since I'm going to specialize, potential clients won't mind making the trip out."

  "You'll make it," he said softly; then he smiled. "I'm going to specialize too. I intend to deal in expensive houses." When she gave a sputter of startled laughter, he said, "No, I mean it. No matter what the economy is doing or how the market fluctuates, the rich are always with us. That may not be an original thought, but it's true. There are always people who want something bigger and more expensive. I intend to be the one who sells it to them."

  She smiled slightly. "And you will probably be very successful. I imagine you could sell just about anything."

  "You think so?" he asked, the crooked smile appearing again. "I'd like to sell you something right now."

  "Me? You picked the wrong customer. It took every spare penny I had to make the down payment on my house."

  "It wouldn't cost you a thing. I'm selling me." He picked up her hand, and his thumb traced the lines in her palm in what seemed a shockingly erotic caress. "How about having dinner with me tomorrow night?"

  Sara was taken aback. She hadn't expected to be forced to make a decision about him so soon. As she stared speechlessly at him, she began to understand what it was about Charlie that threw her. She had never felt an instant physical attraction to a man. The physical had always followed the emotional and intellectual attraction. But she had been instantly drawn to Charlie, and that worried her.

  She didn't entirely understand her feelings. She only knew that something about being involved with Charlie frightened her. And she had learned to trust her instincts.

  So that night she had turned him down, but that hadn't stopped him from trying again . . . and again. Somehow when the course in real-estate law began, Charlie managed to get in the same class with Sara. And in all the other classes. During the day she continued to work at the law office and Charlie was at his father's firm, but each of them was waiting for the future to begin. Then, months later, when they had completed all the required courses, they took their state exams together.

  Three weeks after the test, Sara was at home polishing the silver, trying to keep her mind off the waiting, off the possibility that she had failed the test, when the doorbell rang. Charlie was standing on her doorstep with a champagne bottle in each hand.

  "You passed," she said, not bothering to hide her envy as she showed him in. "Why haven't they called me yet? They're doing it on purpose." She groaned. "It's some kind of trial by fire ... or maybe they know I'll start crying when they tell me I failed." She glanced at him anxiously. "Oh, Charlie, I failed, didn't I? And no one wants to tell me."

  He smiled slyly. "Did I ever tell you about my connection on the state board?"

  "You know something," she accused him, grasping his arm. "What do you know, Charlie? Tell me!"

  Laughing at her threatening expression, he threw an arm around her waist. "You passed."

  Sara squealed, tossing her cleaning rag into the air in triumph. Then suddenly they were dancing together, around the room and over the furniture, in a pagan rite of victory. Exhilaration shot through them before they even uncorked the champagne.

  Much later they sat together on the couch, their shoulders touching as they talked. One bottle of champagne was gone and the other well on its way.

  Sara took a sip from her glass. "It was always in the future. Now it's here. I still can't believe it. There's so much to do."

  Charlie groaned. "I've got to find an office. I've had offers from two real-estate companies, but that's not what I want. I want to set up my own place. I want to handle the houses I want to handle, not the ones that someone else wants me to." He glanced at Sara.

  "How about renting me one of the rooms out back? If clients don't like what you've got, I can show them my listings."

  She was silent for a moment. "You know, that might work."

  "I was teasing."

  "No, listen, Charlie," she said, sitting up straighter. "We could be partners. I'll take the older homes and you can handle the modern ones. It's perfect."

  "You're serious, aren't you?"

  "Just think about it a minute," she urged. "Can you see any real drawbacks?"

  "No . . . but it seems to me that I would be getting all the benefits."

  "No, you wouldn't. The more business we can handle, the more customers well draw in. We take our commission off the top; then a percentage of that will go back into the business. Before long we'll be tycoons."

  "I like it," he said, his blue eyes sparkling as he hugged her. "By George, I like it." He raised his glass. "To our partnership."

  She laughed with excitement and drained her glass.

  "Now we have to throw our glasses in the fireplace," he said, standing.

  "That's my best crystal!" she said, grabbing his arm to pull him back.

  He fell onto the sofa, laughing as he wrapped his arms around her waist. They had both had too much champagne, but that couldn't explain the explosion that took place when he kissed her. Somehow she had known it would be this way. She had known that once he touched her she wouldn't be able to think of anything else. Her hands trembled as she allowed them to touch his face, his chest, his thighs.

  As they found wonder in exploring each other, a stark realization came to Sara. She knew beyond doubt that making love to Charlie was more important than anything in her life. The knowledge petrified her with fear.

  Now, in retrospect, Sara thought she must have gone a little cra2y that night. She vividly recalled the feel of his body. The scent of him still lingered in her nostrils. And his hands, his beautiful, sculptor's hands—they had spoken to her much more clearly than any words she had ever heard.

  She had called a halt to their lovemaking before it was too late, not realizing then that it had been too late the moment she met him. Even now, two years later, the craziness was still in her blood.

  It hadn't been hard to convince Charlie that the champagne had been responsible for her heated response to his caresses. He had accepted the fact that they had to be friends and partners only. No sweat, he had said that night, as though nothing could be easier.

  Restlessly Sara rolled over on the bed. No sweat. The promise had come so easily from him. Just like tonight. The attraction between them had been buried and ignored, at least by Charlie. She would never be able to ignore it herself, never be able to forget the feel of him against her. It had been months before she could sit on the couch without reliving every second of their lo
ve scene there.

  The erotic, confusing dreams had begun after that night. They were always powerful, always disturbing. Sometimes she would go for months without the dreams disrupting her life. Then something would happen, some small thing—a touch, a feeling—and they would return full force.

  And there had been times in the past two years when her need for him had nearly broken her. She continued to tell herself that what she felt was obsessive and wrong, and would fight it doggedly. Getting physically involved with Charlie would bring a pain she knew she wasn't equipped to handle.

  Sara closed her eyes, remembering a night a year ago. She had been lying awake in bed in the early hours before dawn, when her resistance was at its lowest point. In an act of pure desperation she had reached for the phone and dialed his number. A woman had answered, her sleep-husky voice ripping at Sara's heart.

  Anytime Sara felt like making her and Charlie's relationship more than a friendship, she would remember that voice. Pain and jealousy would shake her anew, bringing strength. She could handle a weekend with Charlie, she told herself now. She had to.

  The next morning she lay for a while in bed. She dreaded going down to face Charlie. The scene between them was engraved too intimately in her mind, in her body. Would it show on her face?

  Sighing heavily, she finally pushed back the covers. She couldn't avoid him forever. The only thing she could do was get it over with as soon as possible.

  She heard him whistling before she reached the kitchen. He turned when she slowly pushed the door open.

  "The basement," he said as she walked into the room, his voice portentous even through a mouthful of toast.

  She stared at him for a moment, then felt a rush of relief. It was going to be all right. As always, Charlie was going to make it all right.

  "Come again?" she asked, hiding her smile.

  "The basement."

  "You said that as though you were announcing the ides of March, or something." She poured herself some coffee.

  "We haven't checked the basement yet," he said eagerly. "Who knows what evil lurks in the basement of man?"