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Commanding. Insistent. Wanting to take charge of her. In both cases, she’d broken things off after a nasty argument.
Maybe it was because she’d grown up without a father or even a grandfather, but in Daisy’s experience it simply wasn’t possible to negotiate with a man. There was no way to share power, only fight or flight.
She needed a low-key fellow who wouldn’t lock horns with her. So why wasn’t she attracted to a guy like that?
Daisy wandered into the kitchen and tried to concentrate on fixing dinner. She couldn’t stop thinking about Chance. The lingering scent of his aftershave drifted from the living room, as if a part of him had permeated her condo.
While using the electric opener on a can of soup, she noticed a white paperback wedged between two cookbooks on the counter. What a relief to discover where she’d stuck it! She’d been afraid a deep-lying emotional reluctance had led her to lose the book her friends had bought her, 2001 Ways to Wed.
The book worked, all right. Using it in an attempt to help Daisy, both Phoebe and Elise had fallen in love.
So far she hadn’t done more than glance through it. But if it could help her find Mr. Right, she’d be able to put Chance Foster out of her mind once and for all.
Daisy opened the book. “Okay, Jane Jasmine,” she said, as if the author were standing in front of her. “What pearls of wisdom do you have to offer me?”
Flipping through the pages, she noted and rejected some of the suggestions. She wasn’t going to meet the man of her dreams at the workplace. Sean O’Reilly, her assistant at the gallery, was a kid of twenty-two, eight years younger than she was.
Nor was she likely to find the man of her dreams next door. She’d already ruled out the brother of her next-door neighbor, Elise. The condo on the other side belonged to a middle-aged married couple with school-age children.
Daisy stopped at a chapter entitled “If He Knew Me, He’d Hate Me—Or Would He?”
All of us fear rejection. And many of us secretly feel unworthy of love. Putting the two areas of anxiety together, we may believe that the object of our interest couldn’t possibly love us as we really are.
So we pretend to be something we aren’t, or we hide our real self deep inside. This is exactly the opposite of what we should do if we want to find true love.
We need to be frank and honest. We need to take the risk of showing our true self to the one we care about.
I’m not suggesting you test your loved one’s devotion by dropping your dirty boots on her spotless floor or unloading a day’s worth of frustration by yelling at him. That’s not honesty, it’s inconsideration.
But if you’re watching his football games and haven’t seen your favorite ice skaters in months, tell him what you like. Look for a way to satisfy both your needs. Don’t hide your interests, your fears, your hopes. Sharing them can only create a stronger bond between the two of you.
Skeptical, Daisy stuck the book back into place. The author’s advice made sense up to a point, but how could she tell a formidable man like Chance Foster that she had run away because she knew that sooner or later he would break her heart?
And, having seen him again, she was more certain of that than ever.
“WHAT WAS ALL THAT ABOUT?” Elise demanded when Chance popped into her condo.
His sister had changed into shorts and a sleeveless buttoned shirt. With her medium-length brown hair clipped back, she looked too young to be a college professor. It was hard sometimes to remember that she was thirty-three and had a Ph.D.
“What was all what about?” he temporized. It had become a habit, as an attorney, to reveal as little as possible while he organized his thoughts.
Plus, Chance felt a natural restraint about revealing his emotions. Perhaps it came from being a big brother and taking a lot of responsibility for his sisters. He’d seen the pressure that having eight children put on his parents and had done his best to spare them from unnecessary worry.
In any case, he didn’t like having other people see his vulnerabilities. Not even Elise.
“I got the notion you and Daisy had met before.” She turned her back and marched into the kitchen. Judging by the onions, mushrooms, eggs and cheese on the counter, she was planning to cook an omelette. “You’re going to have to satisfy my curiosity if you expect me to fix you dinner.”
“I had no such expectation,” he said, although the sight of the ingredients made his mouth water. “And naturally, I wouldn’t dream of preparing one of my kitchen-sink salads unless you answer a few questions I happen to have.”
Chance was famous in the Foster household for salads in which, according to his sisters, he tossed everything but the kitchen sink. Starting with a base of greens and tomatoes, he would hunt through the pantry and come up with sardines or tuna, water chestnuts, cashew nuts, crispy Chinese noodles, garbanzo beans or whatever else was on hand.
Elise cracked a couple of eggs into a bowl and regarded him assessingly. “Well, all right. I’ll bet I can tell plenty about you and Daisy from whatever questions you ask, anyway.”
“You should have been a lawyer.”
“Spare me!” she cried in mock horror. “Two in one family?” She cracked a couple more eggs into the bowl. Elise would never put that many eggs in an omelette unless she was expecting company, Chance noted happily.
“By the way, I came over here to talk to you about your wedding plans,” he said. “As an attorney…”
“If you say one word about James and me needing a prenuptial agreement, I’ll wring your neck!” She chopped the onions hard against the cutting board.
From the refrigerator, Chance fetched the salad’s basic ingredients. “If I were his lawyer, seeing how wealthy he is, I’d insist on it. As your brother, however, I’m delighted that he hasn’t asked for one.”
Elise’s mouth twitched. She was only slightly mollified, he could tell. “Then what did you want to say?”
“That I hope you’ve taken my advice about getting premarital counseling.” Opening the cupboard, he stared at the rows of cans before selecting artichoke hearts and pinto beans. Chopped mild chili peppers. Sliced black olives. And a bag of sunflower seeds.
“We don’t need it.” His sister splashed olive oil into her omelette pan. “We love each other and we’re already on the same wave length.”
“How do you plan to handle finances?” Chance challenged. “Which relatives will you spend Christmas with? How many children do you want? What if you get a once-in-a-lifetime offer to teach at a foreign university?”
“We’ll deal with those issues as they come up.” Elise’s thoughtful expression indicated he’d hit home, however.
“It’s better if you discuss potential areas of conflict before there’s an urgent need,” Chance informed her.
His sister released an exasperated breath. “Don’t you ever stop being bossy?”
“Will I ever stop caring about you? No.” He drained the salad ingredients and tossed them together.
Elise didn’t say any more as she concentrated on pouring the mixture into the pan, letting it cook and deftly folding it. A few minutes later the two of them sat at the table, sharing their creations.
“Tell me about you and Daisy,” she said.
There was no point in playing coy. “I met her at your engagement party.”
She stopped, a forkful of salad halfway to her mouth. “Daisy is Deirdre? I don’t believe it!”
He thanked his innate reserve for the fact that he hadn’t told about taking Deirdre home with him. He’d said only that he’d met a charming woman and wondered if anyone knew her phone number. “To make matters worse, I told her my name was Charles. So she didn’t know who I was, either.”
“And you like each other? How perfect!” Elise crowed. “Phoebe and I have been trying to find a guy for Daisy for months!”
“So you’ve told me,” Chance said. “I don’t understand why. An attractive woman like her should have men swarming around.”
“She’s picky,” his sister said. “We’ve been trying to find the right man.”
“So she’s hard to please.” He poured a little more vinegar and oil on his salad. “Does that mean she’s unreliable? Does she change her mind often?”
“There’s a difference between being discerning and being capricious.” Now Elise sounded like the professor she was instead of like his kid sister. “There’s nothing flighty about Daisy.”
Chance hesitated. There was another thing he wanted to know that might shed light on Daisy’s behavior. It was highly personal, though. “Phoebe mentioned a female condition. I don’t know much about these things.”
Elise set down her fork. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”
“Then don’t.”
Elise stared out the window, considering. “I don’t think Daisy would mind if I explained her condition to you. I’ve heard her tell others about it, people who aren’t that close to her. I think she’s actually trying to educate people about the condition.
“She has endometriosis. The way Daisy explained it, tissue that’s supposed to be lining the uterus appears in other parts of the body. It can be minor or really nasty. Her case is kind of in the middle but getting worse. It can make it hard to have a baby, so if she wants one, she needs to have it soon.”
The possibility that Daisy’s life might be in danger sent an icy wave of fear flooding through Chance. “It isn’t like cancer, is it?”
“No, no!” His sister patted his hand. “The way she explained it, it’s as if a bit of your heart tissue landed in your elbow.”
“Excuse me?”
“It would beat, just like it always does, so you’d have this weird pulsing elbow. So this female tissue, well, it behaves normally, only it’s in the wrong place. That can cause a lot of pain. Especially once a month.”
“I get the picture,” he said.
Chance wasn’t sure whether Daisy’s endometriosis had anything to do with her decision to flee from his house and avoid him afterward. It certainly introduced a complication that would affect any man she married. But a guy worth his salt married for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.
Wait a minute. Why was he thinking about Daisy in connection with marriage?
They weren’t even dating, let alone close to becoming engaged. In fact, she’d just thrown him out of her apartment.
Elise regarded him shrewdly. “So have I put you off my friend?” she asked.
“You mean because she has this condition?” he said. “No.”
“I probably shouldn’t have said anything.” She stood up and carted her dishes to the counter. “Me and my big mouth.”
“I’m your brother.”
“Yeah, but she likes you.”
“You think so?” The observation lifted his spirits.
“I’ve seen Daisy around a lot of guys,” Elise said. “You’re different. It wasn’t anything she said or did, exactly. It was that, well, I could tell she was aware of you every second.”
He waited, hoping for more concrete details of the way she’d looked at him, or a comment she’d made after the party.
“You’re doing the dishes, right?” said his sister, seemingly unaware of his hunger for more details about the elusive Daisy.
ALL FRIDAY MORNING Daisy’s stomach churned. At first she thought she might be coming down with a virus, but toward lunchtime she got hungry.
It wasn’t the first time she’d felt queasy since the doctor changed her medication. It hadn’t helped that, lacking medical insurance because she was self-employed, Daisy had allowed a few weeks to elapse while she waited to have her new prescription filled through a cheap mail-order pharmacy.
Going on and off medication must have played havoc with her hormones. Yet she couldn’t justify the cost of another doctor visit when she felt certain the situation would resolve itself as her system adjusted.
“You feeling better?” asked her assistant, Sean, as he carted a collage from Gallery III into the back room. They had to take down one exhibit and put up the new one today.
“Yes. In fact, I’m starving,” she admitted. “Is that the last piece?”
“All done,” he confirmed.
Daisy stepped into the bare-walled gallery. She’d been visualizing the new exhibit ever since she’d arranged for the one-woman show months ago. It would be the artist’s first major exhibit in the United States, and invitations to Saturday night’s wine and cheese opening had been mailed last week.
Shakira Benjamin was a gifted African-American painter and teacher who’d had a studio in Germany before relocating to Mesa, near Phoenix, about a year ago. Daisy felt lucky to have her affiliated with the gallery.
“What now?” asked Sean, joining her. A recent college graduate, he wore his blond hair long and unstyled, hanging over the shoulders of a blue workshirt.
As usual, bits of sawdust clung to his jeans. The loft where he lived and worked on his wood sculptures was no doubt coated with the stuff.
“We’ll need to put these up.” She indicated a pile of rough-textured cloths in the three primary colors.
The artist’s acrylic paintings placed superrealistic images of people on impressionistic backgrounds, in sepia or black-and-white tones reminiscent of old photographs. The overall effect would be harsh without offsetting color on the walls.
Daisy’s favorite was a painting of two Native American children, one in traditional buckskin and the other in modern clothes, playing a game that resembled jacks. The blurry background might be viewed as either a cluster of ancient multilevel pueblos or as a modern cityscape.
“Okay, where do you want me to hang this?” Sean picked up a yellow burlap rectangle.
“I’ll show you.” Daisy fetched a folding ladder and placed it against the back wall. As she climbed, a momentary light-headedness made her halt. “Wow. I must be hungrier than I thought.”
“Do you want me to make a sandwich run?”
“In a minute.” After descending, she handed Sean a sketch she’d made, showing how the rectangles should be draped to complement the paintings. “Think you can handle it?”
“Sure.” His can-do attitude, which she’d appreciated when he first came here as a student intern, was the reason she’d hired him. Working alongside him, she had learned she could rely on his excellent artistic judgment.
“We probably won’t be able to finish mounting everything and adjusting the lights till tomorrow.” Daisy hoped the light-headedness was only a temporary phenomenon, because it was going to be a busy day. “I’ve got a commitment in the afternoon for a few hours, so we’ll have to do it early.”
“Okay by me.”
She didn’t mind that Elise and Phoebe had more or less coerced her into going shopping with them on Saturday afternoon. All the same, she hoped they found dresses quickly.
Bells jingled as the front door opened. Daisy brushed lint off her ivory blouse and calf-length, striped tan and blue skirt—one of her mother’s creations—and went to check on the visitor.
Bright daylight silhouetted Chance Foster’s well-built frame. Even when the door closed, the glare faded slowly, and it was a moment before she realized he was carrying a pizza and a carton of drinks.
His self-possessed stance and the welcoming indentation in his cheek couldn’t hide the hunger in his gaze. How could a man look so pleasantly accommodating and so virile at the same time?
“I hope you haven’t eaten,” he said.
Before Daisy could reply, Sean appeared at her elbow. “Wow!” he said. “You sent out?” Then he noticed Chance’s tailored suit. “Must be some snazzy restaurant if their delivery guys dress like this!”
“We aim to please.” Chance set the pizza and drinks on a low front table that held informational pamphlets. “Chance Foster. I’m a friend of Daisy’s.” Sean introduced himself, and the two men shook hands.
It would be rude to reject his offering of food after he’d gone to so much trouble, Daisy told herself. Besides, the scents of cheese and spices were enough to overpower even the most iron will. “Thanks,” she said.
“It’s Mexican-style pizza.” Chance cleared the pamphlets aside while Sean fetched folding chairs. Ordinarily Daisy ate in the back room, but it would be cramped for the three of them, so she didn’t protest.
A middle-aged couple wandered into the gallery. They smiled at the lunchtime tableau and began browsing through the Gallery I exhibit of beaded jewelry and headdresses.
The hot sausage and chili peppers on the pizza gave Daisy a moment’s pause. She was too hungry to resist, however, and found that they didn’t upset her stomach as much as she’d feared.
“I work a block away,” Chance explained to Sean. “I’m a family law attorney.”
“So how do you two know each other?” the young man asked guilelessly.
“His sister…”
“…lives next door…”
“…ran into each other…”
“…engagement party.”
They finished at the same time. Sean regarded them with a puzzled expression. “I see.”
“Actually, my interest in Daisy is partly professional.” Chance managed to eat his pizza without getting cheese on his chin, a trick that Sean hadn’t mastered, Daisy noted.
“She needs a lawyer?” the young man asked.
“Not my profession. Hers.” Chance handed around cups of soft drinks. “I need artwork for my house and I could use her expert advice.”
Daisy hoped he wasn’t suggesting that she visit his house again. She also hoped this wasn’t a ploy to get her back into his bed. “I could show you our portfolio of artists.”
The middle-aged couple stopped nearby. “Can I help you?” Daisy asked. When they nodded, Sean went to assist them in trying on jewelry.
“I need more than a few items.” Chance spoke coolly, in a low voice. “I’m a strong believer in seeing the big picture, and when it comes to art, I lack your ability to visualize a room in advance.”
Daisy took a deep breath. “From what I’ve seen of your house…”
“You’ll need to take another look. In daylight.” He wasn’t asking, she realized. Chance had made his decision and expected her to go along with it.
“But…”
“I want the whole effect carefully thought out. It’s going to involve getting a few items of new furniture, too, and repainting if necessary. I realize you’re not an interior designer, but the sculpture and paintings will be the focus.”
Daisy wanted to refuse. She didn’t like being railroaded, and she didn’t want to venture into Chance Foster’s house again.
Sitting across from him in her gallery, despite the nearness of Sean and the customers, her whole body sparkled with the man’s energy. The restraint in his gray eyes and elegant suit only emphasized the contours of his body and the potent sexuality she remembered all too vividly.
She wasn’t sure she could stay out of Chance’s bed. Alone in his house…
“We’re talking about a large expenditure,” he went on. “When I bought the house, I budgeted a considerable sum for art. It’s time I spent it.”
Unfair! she wanted to cry. Even a successful gallery like Native Art operated on a thin profit margin. She couldn’t afford to pass up this opportunity. Besides, Daisy owed it to her artists to do her best for them.
And, she recalled, that night when she entered his house, he’d apologized for the sparse furnishings and mentioned that one of these days he was going to buy paintings. So he wasn’t simply manipulating her.
She assumed an impersonal tone. “I represent dozens of artists. I’m sure we can find special pieces for you.”
The couple made a purchase and left, and Sean rejoined them. “What did I miss?”
“Miss Redford is going to take a look at my house this afternoon and make recommendations.” Chance wiped his hands on a napkin and stood up. “I leave work early on Fridays. Pick you up around three, all right? Nice to meet you, Sean.” With a friendly nod, he departed.
Daisy sat motionless, stunned. She hadn’t agreed to go to his house so soon, or to ride with him, either.
“Seems like a nice guy.” Sean took another bite of pizza. “Hey, don’t worry. Using your outline, I can get the show mounted by myself. Fridays are always slow anyway.”
“Let’s see how much progress we can make before three o’clock,” she said.
Daisy knew when she’d been outmaneuvered. Well, she could hold her own with Chance Foster and she was going to prove it to him.
Chapter Four
Chance hadn’t intended to corral Daisy into touring his house that afternoon. He’d gone by her gallery in a polite attempt to reestablish a friendly relationship and to ask for a professional consultation.
Something about the woman brought out the bossy side of him, he admitted as he finished making notes for a custody brief to write over the weekend.
Maybe it was the way she never gave an inch. And why did she have to employ a peppy young assistant who hovered over her adoringly?
She’d looked so cute in that demure long skirt, with a strand of auburn hair clinging to one cheek. And so surprised to see him, as if she weren’t sure how to react. Chance had instinctively seized the advantage.
He wished he knew what it was about her that he found so captivating. It seemed unlikely she would fit his standards for the ideal wife, in light of the way she’d run from him and then refused to give a credible explanation.
Reliability and communication. Those were two musts that he would include if he ever wrote A Lawyer’s Guide to Making Matrimony Work.
Probably no one would buy it, though, even if he did. In his observation, people were irrational when it came to marriage.
Chance copied his notes from the computer’s hard drive onto a diskette and dropped it in his briefcase. At his home office, he kept a library of legal references on CD-ROM, so he didn’t have to cart heavy books home.
It was a quarter to three, which meant that, if he left now, he should arrive at the gallery right on the hour. Perfect timing suited Chance.
In his front office he found Nell Beecham closing the books for the week. The secretary whipped around to regard him sternly.
“Leaving fifteen minutes early, Mr. Foster?” she asked. At sixty-seven, Nell brought nearly a half century of experience to the job, along with strong opinions about how people ought to behave. Including her boss.
“I’m picking someone up at three,” he said.
Her frown mutated into an approving half smile. “Good. You’ll be on time.” If he thought he’d passed inspection, however, Chance had congratulated himself too soon. “I don’t recall setting up an appointment for you.”
When he’d hired Nell, one of his friends had warned that he would be getting a mother figure in the office. Chance didn’t mind.
For one thing, top-notch secretaries were hard to find. For another, as the oldest of eight children, he’d filled the role of a quasiadult for so long that he was on more or less equal terms with his own parents, so he figured he could handle an office mother as well.
“It’s the owner of the Native Art gallery,” he told her. “I’m consulting her about my house.”
“Some of the objects they display are a bit odd,” she said. “I’m not a fan of modern art myself. However, they have an excellent reputation.”
“I’ll be the one who makes the final decisions,” he assured her. “Have a lovely weekend.”
“Don’t forget you’re due in court Monday morning,” she said.
“I won’t.” He didn’t have to remind her about locking up and depositing the week’s checks. Nell Beecham was as reliable as a bank president.
She kept her private life to herself, though. Although she’d mentioned her grown children, the only pictures on her desk were of her two Siamese cats.
He wondered what she did in her spare time. A woman as energetic and organized as Nell wouldn’t likely sit around knitting cat booties. Still, he didn’t intend to get nosy.
Traffic was heavy, Chance found when his sports car exited the parking garage, but he didn’t mind. He liked working in a high-rise, metropolitan area with easy access to suburbs.
In recent years Phoenix had become a haven for the winter weary, and while the migration was good for business, it resulted in L.A.-style jams. The inconvenience was worth the price, in his opinion.